When they sit on the couch together it's usually to read, the TV in their little house is rarely ever used. Francis will have a hand on Arthur's thigh and the other on the spine of his book—they're bony hands, with thick knuckles and thin skin that comes with age, but Arthur doesn't mind it.
Sometimes his hands moves upward, run over Arthur's worn jumper and curl around his neck and settle there. Arthur joins, moving his hands from his book to hold on to Francis and there are soft kisses on the couch that looks as old as they do. It squeaks and sags as they move towards one another, but neither notices much anymore.
Their kisses have slowed with age, no more hungry need or quick relief. They're quiet, with a hand in Francis' hair and a hand around Arthur's neck.
They're simple and a little old-fashioned.
Arthur shifts and moves away from Francis' lips, kisses his neck just as slowly and he hears Francis give a small laugh as he rests his head there.
And then it goes quiet—just the sound of their breathing.
Francis raises an eyebrow and pushes against Arthur's shoulder only receiving a soft snore in return. He starts to laugh harder until his breath catches and he tries to wheeze softly so he doesn't wake up the other.
Sleep catches them like this more often than either would care to admit.