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George desperately wanted to get out of bed.
He’d been laying in bed for the past four hours, trying to muster the strength to get up. He could feel a migraine pulsing at his temples, getting worse each second he stayed laying down, but he just… couldn’t get up. His limbs just refused to cooperate. He couldn’t even reach for his phone.
He heaved a tired sigh when he felt a telltale fuzziness creep in at the back of his skull. His vision blurred and he tried to prepare himself as best as he could for the oncoming storm. The light creeping in through the cracks in his blinds suddenly felt a lot brighter against his spiking migraine.
His eyes closed- not by choice- and he started counting the seconds in his head.
One, two, three, four- god, he hated this. Seven, eight- his limbs were locked in place, more so than they were before. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen- he could feel his head sliding off the pillow and he hoped he’d be able to catch himself if he fell off the bed. Bruising was the worst. Twenty-three, twenty-four- his head dropped onto the mattress, jostling his paralyzed limbs, but thankfully not enough to rock him off the bed.
Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty- the door was creaking open, and soft footsteps padded into the room. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one- a big, warm hand placed itself against his cheek, thumb rubbing his temple.
“Georgie,” Clay whispered, “time to wake up.”
Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine- “George?”
George felt his hand twitch. Clay’s hand retreated, and George felt it encase his hand moments later.
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight- his foot curled, and he opened his eyes.
“Hey,” Clay whispered. He was crouched down next to his bed, a gentle, worried smile on his face.
George gave a tired smile back. Clay squeezed his hand.
“How long?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“Nearly a minute,” George answered. He yawned, then lifted his head just enough to drop himself back on his pillow.
Clay hummed, stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. “How long have you been up?”
George glanced at his alarm clock to double check. “Four hours.”
Clay’s smile softened a bit. “Bad day?”
“Mhm.”
“Do you wanna get up?”
George closed his eyes and heaved out a sigh. “Mhm. Jus’ can’t.”
“Why don’t I help you, hm?”
“Okay.”
Clay’s hand slid behind him, resting between his shoulder blades. He heaved George up with a slight grunt and let him catch his bearings, leaning him back against the headboard. A pillow slid behind him to cushion his head.
Sharp pain exploded behind George’s eyes, pulsing in time with his quickened heartbeat. Clay rubbed his back.
“Are you gonna pass out?” he murmured.
George waited a moment for the black spots to clear out of his vision, then shook his head.
“Alright. Just breathe, okay? I’ll text Nick to get you some water.”
George watched idly as Clay texted their friend, arms limp by his sides. He wanted to reach for his phone, but he wasn’t sure that his limbs would let him. Well, that and his head would probably explode with pain at the light.
Clay got up a moment later, reaching for the blackout curtains. George sighed when the room shrouded itself in blessed darkness.
“Alright, he’ll be here in a minute,” Clay said, sitting down beside him on the bed. “What else do you need?”
George took a moment to survey his body, honing in on every part of it to check and make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Head- his head was foggy, and he had a massive migraine. Shoulders were fine, his neck and back were a little sore, probably from the awkward angle he’d slept at last night to avoid his stomach pain, which had thankfully ebbed by now. Speaking of his stomach, he was definitely hungry, to the point where he felt a little nauseous. His arms and legs weren’t responding properly. His right arm was tingling a little, all the rest were numb. His lungs felt a bit tight, probably because he hadn’t used his inhaler yet and the air in Florida was more humid than he was used to. His right wrist was a bit sore, and now that he was thinking about it, it was probably subluxed. He should probably sort that out before it got any worse. He didn’t need a full dislocation on top of everything else today.
He put together a mental list of everything he’d need. “Inhaler- the preventative one, not the rescue one- actually, I still need to take my daily meds, so both- compression socks, something to eat- toast, probably- uhhh… morning meds, some water, probably some paracetamol too… oh, and the chair.”
Clay nodded. “Inhaler, socks, toast, meds, and the chair, got it.” He opened George’s bedside drawer and rummaged around a bit, pulling out his medications one by one. If George could move, he would have kissed him. Moments later, the proper amount of each medication was placed on the bedside table- one antacid capsule, both of his inhalers, two salt supplement pills, three duloxetine capsules, one vitamin b supplement, and two paracetamol pills. Maybe to other people it would have been a lot, but to George, it was just another part of his routine.
He dry-swallowed the supplements, duloxetine, and paracetamol, scrunching his nose at the lingering feeling of pills in his throat. His wrist throbbed and the tingling feeling intensified. Clay shook his inhalers for him, handing them to him one by one. He took two puffs of flovent, then two puffs of albuterol, sticking his tongue out at the aftertaste.
“Blegh,” he grimaced, “disgusting.”
Clay laughed, placing the bottles and the inhalers back in his bedside drawer. “Nick’ll be here with the water soon. Do you wanna get up?”
“Yeah, I’m sick of laying down.”
His boyfriend laughed again. “GeorgeNotFound himself, sick of sleeping? Never thought I’d see the day.”
George stuck his tongue out at him. Clay lightly swatted his shoulder. He stood, the mattress creaking as he took his weight off.
“Your chair’s in the closet, right?”
“Mhm.”
Clay padded across the room and into the closet, pulling out the folded-up chair. He unfolded it, clicking the locks into place. He wheeled it over, leaving about a meter of space between it and the bed.
“Alright,” he said, “let’s get this show on the road.”
George hummed. Clay placed his hands under his arms and hefted him up. “Steady, steady,” he said, “if you kick me I’m gonna drop you.”
“If I kick you, it’s because my body thinks you look kick-able.”
Clay grunted and tugged him off the bed, careful not to jostle him too much. “Just for that, you can make your own toast.”
“Oh no! How will I ever cope without my cooked bread?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Never.”
Clay dropped him into his chair. George let out an indignant squawk. “Hey!”
“Sorry, my body just thinks you look drop-able.”
George scowled at him, reaching down with his one semi-functioning arm to tug his legs onto the footrests. He tried to ignore the searing pain that shot up his wrist. “I’m gonna punch you once my arms start working again.”
“Oh yeah? Is that a promise?”
George looked up. A telling smirk was tugging itself across his face.
“Shut up,” he rolled his eyes.
The door creaked open again. “Are you two done flirting, or should I just let you die of thirst in here?”
“Flirting? Who said we were flirting?” Clay lilted, stepping around George so he could tug him away from the bed.
George gave him another eye roll. Nick scrunched his face up and made a move like he was closing the door. “Gross, I’m leaving.”
“If you make my boyfriend go thirsty, I’m gonna throw you off the roof.”
“Yeah yeah.” Nick opened the door again and stepped inside. He handed a half-full tumbler to George, making sure he had a firm grip on it before he let go.
George brought it up to his mouth and drank, sighing as the taste of albuterol and the sticky residue from the capsules left his tongue. He moved to bring it down to his lap, but hissed when the movement sent shooting pain through his wrist.
Nick reached his hands out like he wanted to help, but wasn’t sure how. “You okay?”
“No. I’ve had three seizures since I woke up, my lungs decided they’re going to collapse in on themselves like a dying star, and my limbs decided to hate me.”
“I meant your arm, dumbass.”
George rolled his eyes. “Subluxed,” he said, letting his wrist flop around a bit. He grimaced.
Clay stepped out from behind the chair, leaning over his shoulder. “Need help putting it back?”
“That’d be good, yeah.”
Clay hummed and reached for his wrist. One hand braced the back of his hand while another wrapped around his wrist. He moved it back and forth. George winced at the feeling of his joints rubbing against each other in all the wrong ways. Suddenly, something clicked and the pain eased up.
“Good, thanks.”
“Yep.” Clay pushed his chair forward. “Nick, can you-?”
“Got it.”
Nick pushed the door open as far as it would go and stepped out of the way, letting Clay push the chair through the entry and into the hall. Thankfully, George had gotten the guest room on the first floor when he moved in, which made moving around the house a lot easier than it had at his apartment. They’d even gotten a wheelchair ramp for the front steps and had the walkway redone to be a lot wider and smoother. George loved his boyfriend.
He was wheeled into the kitchen, and he watched as Nick made a beeline for the fridge. “Alright, what do you want for breakfast? Or lunch I guess.”
“Toast.”
“Two slices of toast, coming right up.”
George smiled, raising the tumbler to his lips. He was wheeled up to the table, and Clay bent underneath it to lower it down to his height.
He hadn’t gotten this many accommodations in his apartment. He didn’t even know it was possible to be accommodated like this. Everything Clay had put in place made his life a thousand times easier. It made him glad he decided to open up to him all those months ago about his illnesses. Back when he was living on his own, he’d struggle to the point where he could barely leave the house most days, let alone feed himself or even get out of bed.
But now, even when he was having a bad day, he could go through a basic self-care routine and could even leave the house for a bit. It made a world of difference, especially when he was having a bad symptom day. They came less frequently, and were a lot easier to deal with.
George placed the tumbler on the table and hummed, gazing at his boyfriend. He itched to apologize, to say sorry for being such a burden on them and slowing them down. But he remembered what Clay and Nick had been insisting he do for months, and he decided: today was the day he’d actually take them up on it.
“Thank you,” he murmured, looking between his boyfriend and his best friend.
Clay beamed and reached across the table. He took his hand in his and leaned over to press a gentle kiss on his forehead.
“Of course, Georgie.”
George smiled and closed his eyes.
Everything felt okay.