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Everything aches, though the most he’s managed has been a slow shamble to give himself a once-over in the mirror, decide that he did indeed look like death warmed over, and then proceed to vomit in the vague direction of the porcelain throne. That mess will be a problem for future-Tom. Now-Tom can’t be bothered to focus on anything but the overwhelming urge to crawl back into bed and bemoan the state of existing.
He knows he won’t be alone for long if he dares give in to the urge. A cold nose will burrow beneath the layers of down to press into his arm, leg, or someplace else equally as exposed. The simple fact that he can hear a steady – thump whump thump – as background accompaniment to his retching helps to boost his spirits.
It’s solidarity, though his pup can’t do much to battle against this hellacious virus.