Work Text:
John’s not sure if he likes it. Being human.
He’s always wanted his own body. His own hands, his own feet, his own mouth, his own way to touch and traverse and communicate with the world around him. He’s always wanted to feel the sun upon his cheeks or the burn in his legs after a long day of walking or the contented fullness in his stomach after a large meal. But now that he has it…
The sun is too hot, and he hates the sticky, smelly nature of sweat.
His feet ache and swell the night after a long walk, and he winces the next morning as he moves about his and Arthur’s shared apartment.
And his stomach never seems to like what he gives it.
Eating is fine, now that he gets to taste things. Chewing isn’t so loud and obnoxious when he also controls the mouth that is doing the chewing. Warm food relaxes him and makes him drowsy, and cold food helps with the hot and the sweaty on days when the sun is too much. There are so many flavors that combine in so many different ways, and John keeps discovering new ones—ones he loves and ones he hates and ones he knows he can make better if given the chance. The problem isn’t the eating; it’s what comes after the eating.
Digestion.
Eugh.
John has discovered, in just over a year of being a human, that he is, apparently, bad at digestion. He doesn’t know how he can be bad at something that his body is supposed to just do, but here he is. Arthur says that it’s fairly normal—that many people have certain foods that they can’t eat or that upset their stomachs, and part of being a human is figuring out which foods you can and cannot consume.
John’s never seen Arthur struggle with digestion. But Arthur has his own difficulties with the actual “eating” bit, so perhaps it’s simply that to be human is to struggle with having a human body.
“Do you wish you’d gotten an eldritch body instead?” Arthur asks him one night after dinner, when John’s stomach is starting to exhibit the tell-tale signs of a long night of grumbling and cramping just because he dared to try something new. “Something closer to what you were when you were part of the King?”
John slaps the hot water bottle on his stomach with a bit more force than necessary and leans back on the couch. “Maybe. At least then, I wouldn’t have intestines to deal with.”
“Really?” Arthur leans forward slightly, his mug of tea set to the side and momentarily forgotten. “Did you not need to eat when you were the King? I suppose it makes sense, being an immortal elder god—it just never really occurred to me.”
John makes a dismissive noise. “Not in the same way you eat. It was more … deriving energy from the fear and insanity I would cultivate in humans.”
“Huh.” Arthur sits back again. Gathers up his mug of tea and takes a sip. “I wonder if that’s why you’re having trouble with digesting the food you eat. Some sort of … bleedover effect?”
“I don’t know, Arthur.” John feels ill, and he’d really like to talk about something else. “Maybe.”
Arthur nods once, then picks up the day’s crossword and tactfully moves on to other topics.
Maybe Arthur’s right, though. Maybe it’s some kind of bleedover—the universe realizing that this isn’t who he’s meant to be. He’s noticed other things, too—how his teeth are sharp where they should be blunt, how he can still see enough to get by on the darkest nights, how his shadow looms taller than it should. Most of it is insignificant, and he supposes in the grand scheme of things, this is too.
It could be worse. He could have tentacles for legs or horns growing out of his head or bright yellow skin. He could be unable to eat food at all. His stomach doesn’t even hurt all the time—only when he eats something it doesn’t like.
It could be worse.
If he keeps telling himself that, maybe he’ll actually believe it.
“I suppose,” Arthur says one night while they’re lying in bed, John’s stomach a twisted and gnarled mess, “it makes sense that none of this is easy. Hell, being a human isn’t easy for any of us. But … well. We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. Easy was never really on the cards for us.”
John settles a hand low on his stomach and turns his head, watching Arthur with eyes that see more than they should. Arthur is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. John can’t read the expression on his face. He thinks, though, that he understands it.
John reaches out with his other hand and lays it atop Arthur’s. “No,” he says quietly. “I suppose not.”
He squeezes once, and Arthur smiles, turning on his side to face John and linking their fingers together. John knows that Arthur can’t see him—his sight is poor at the best of times, and there’s barely any moonlight tonight—but Arthur is closing his eyes anyway. “Good night, John.”
John studies Arthur’s face for a moment, mapping out cheeks that aren’t as gaunt as they once were and hair that’s close-cropped and freshly washed. “Good night, Arthur,” he says.
His stomach clenches and cramps. John closes his eyes, presses his hand to it tightly, and waits for sleep to come.