Arthur's hips aren't as good as they used to be and when they walk down to the corner market for groceries he has to stop—holds on to Francis and grimaces. Francis smiles, says you should get a cane, dear and Arthur glares—grinds his teeth and tightens his grip on the other.
"I don't need a fucking cane."
He's a stubborn old bastard, as much as his body aches with every refusal for help. His mind is as sharp and pigheaded as it was at twenty-two and doesn't want to notice that his joints are some three times that age.
Francis carries most of the groceries home, trying not to admit that he's starting to slow down as much as Arthur. He takes satisfaction in knowing that it's only when there's a bit more work to do than usual. (Certainly not in the condition he was at half this old age, but it's something and a little something means he can brag. Even if it's not getting as tired carrying extra groceries as the old man with the bad hip walking next to him.)
He can hear Arthur laughing as his breathing gets louder, but neither of them comment.
..
Dinner is a simple affair. Arthur measure and chops and Francis puts together the meal—it's a routine they've had for longer than either can remember and it works as well as it had twenty years ago. It's become quieter, though, certainly. Old age has brought contentment and washed a way a bit of anger and spitfire.
(A bit.)
A pair of bickering old fools they are, no matter their age.
..
They leave the dishes in the sink to do in the morning and shuffle off to bed.
Sometimes there's a kiss on the lips before they crawl under the sheets, sometimes not and neither complains. They don't move in close and hold each other, it's too damn hot, they say, they're fine on their own sides of the bed—Francis with three pillows and Arthur with one.
There aren't many I love you's before sleep catches them either, but there doesn't need to be—they've certainly stuck around this long.