"Right," John says, pleased by the answer. The practical differences are too small to be worth any serious measuring: the shorter distance from the kitchen and closer proximity to easy entertainment being the most obvious. But he also thinks there might be some psychological benefit to getting out of bed, as opposed to convalescing there all day like a victorian invalid, and he gets to his feet so he can help Martin lever himself upright.

It's a... mostly successful attempt, and John shifts quickly to take some of Martin's weight when he all but collapses against him. "Easy," he murmurs, curling an arm around Martin's back, his other hand braced beneath his arm. Then, sympathetically, "I know, love." Generally speaking, Martin seems rather good at avoiding illnesses, and he knows the failure irks him. Maybe the colds are different, here. It hasn't been much of a concern for John — there's no real sickness for him but Statement withdrawal, these days — but now he wonders if it ought to be. Does not catching bugs inherently mean he can't spread them? Should he be washing his hands more often? Christ.

Well, it's a moot point right now. "Come on, let's get you settled," he says, gently guiding Martin out to the couch. They've amassed a couple of throws between them, and once Martin's seated, John unfolds one of the softer, thicker ones and tucks it around Martin's shoulders. "Are you hungry at all?" he asks, sliding his fingers back into Martin's hair as he straightens. Hopefully Martin can get something down; none of their cold medications should really be taken on an empty stomach.