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Jem wakes up ( a term he uses, at this moment, only because english has no tidy word for the feeling of being awake but being so completely exhausted you might as well still be asleep ) and everything hurts.
This is not unexpected.
He’d known a flare was starting the past few days, known because he was sleeping more, because his fingers were starting to ache, because his temperature has been inching up by frustratingly small intervals - if he’s going to have a fever he would rather his body just moved along with it .
It is not, upon further consideration, everything hurting - not more than a muted, dull ache in most places. His chest hurts a lot, yes, and there's a dull pounding in his head, rhythmic enough to play violin to if his wrists weren't getting the worst of it this time - they’re swollen, and, when he gets enough willpower to move one hand over to the other, hot to the touch. But it isn’t everything , everything hurts is a melodramatic phrase and Jem Carstairs is a lot of things, but melodramatic isn't one of them. His face itches - probably a developing rash, he needs to remember to call his doctor - he probably won’t, but maybe if he thinks that he needs to hard enough it’ll stick to something in his foggy brain this time.
He fondly remembers the days when lupus was scary instead of profoundly annoying as he slowly and painfully slides out of bed - his knees hurt too, he notices as the sudden pressure of the rest of him pressing on them turns them from bone and tendon into pure solidified agony for a second.
One breath. Two breaths. Let go of the nightstand. Don't throw up. He’s got this. One breath. Two breaths. He was right about the rash, he sees it in the bathroom mirror immediately, spreading across his cheekbones. He puts cream on it, takes his medication, hates the inconvenience of his wrists hurting with a passion . One breath. Two breaths. His bed is warm, welcoming, and he returns to it gladly.
He wakes up again, some indeterminable amount of time later, to a loud buzzing noise. Phone , he thinks, as if acknowledging the source of the noise will either make it stop or bring the damn thing into his hand without him having to move. Unfortunately, life does him no favors. It’s one in the afternoon, apparently, which is a late start even for him - that explains all the texts waiting to be read.
11:38, Will: still sleeping?
11:41, Will: Jem you know it’s tuesday right
11:50, Will: okay now i’m concerned
12:30, Will: Jem holy shit
12:30, Will: JEM!!!
12:31, Will: JEM CARSTAIRS
12:32, Will: 健铭!!!
12:32, Will: well it was worth a shot
12:45, Will: James?
And then, a significantly calmer set.
12:00, Tessa: are you okay?
12:30, Tessa: Will’s worried, text one of us please
13:00, Tessa: text me when you can
He gives himself a second to stew in guilt for making them worry - he usually texts them if he’s expecting to sleep all day - and then sends sick was sleeping sorry to them both and makes an attempt to wake the rest of the way up.
13:02, Tessa: that's okay. sick or *sick*?
He doesn't remember if they've established which of those options this falls under.
13:02, Will: up for skype???
Jem weighs his options in his head for a minute - wrestling his laptop out from under his bed isn't going to be fun, but in the long run it’s better than having to move his phone to and from the nightstand all day.
He’s right again, it’s the exact opposite of fun, but seeing Tessa and Will is at least mostly worth it. “Alright, good, just wanted to make sure you weren't in hospital and not telling us,” Will says with fake cheer.
“I’m pretty sure that was rude,” Tessa admonishes.
“It does sound like something I’d do though,” Jem sighs, half-burying his head in his pillow and taking the opportunity to just look at them - Tessa curled in among cardboard boxes with a coffee cup almost too big for her hands, Will still in his pajamas in his disastrously messy room at his parents’ house. It’s times like this that make it really hard to tell himself he’s not falling for either of them. “You copy-pasted my name wrong, by the way,” he tells Will to distract himself.
Will huffs a sigh in mock-exasperation, and the mostly-hidden tension bleeds out of his shoulders, “Google gave me two options for each character, which one did I get wrong?”
“What did I miss?” Tessa asks - they’ve gotten in the habit of keeping each other up-to-date on everything, the three of them, it’s so nice .
“I ran out of ways to say his name in english -”
“Lack of imagination, really, there are about a thousand diminutives of James,” Jem grumbles, biting back a laugh when Will just - very maturely - sticks his tongue out in response. “And it was the second one, thanks, what was so hard about just sending my first name?”
Will glares mutinously, shoving his glasses higher on his nose like he always does when he’s trying to make a point, “It shows a lack of dedication!”
“But it’s more casual - how would you like if we called you Gwilym Owain in regular conversation?” Tessa - coming to the rescue, Jem’s not a debater even when he’s not having trouble stringing thoughts together - says, sipping her coffee with raised eyebrows.
“Your accent is terrible but I see your point,” Will acknowledges grumpily.
Tessa puts down her mug to point at the screen, eyes narrow, “After that American Accent Challenge video you are never allowed to criticize my accent ever again!” She says, faux-outraged.
Jem buries his face back in his pillow and lets the sound of them teasing each other wash over him. It’s comforting - he’s tired and achy, but he can hear people he cares about, who care about him enough to worry when he doesn’t answer his messages, who care enough to want to live with him - and they care because they want to, not because they’ve been strong-armed into it by familial obligation. It’s a very warm feeling, being wanted.
There’s a lull in the conversation, which Jem barely notices, and then, “I think he's asleep,” Tessa whispers, voice very soft.
“M’not,” he manages, not bothering to pick his head up - Will snorts, and Jem smiles a little at the sound even if he’s not completely sure what prompted it, Will really doesn’t laugh enough, it’s unfortunate, he looks even more outrageously pretty when he does.
... Not going there.
“Do you want us to hang up so you can rest?” Tessa wants to know, and the only response Jem can muster up is an annoyed hum in the back of his throat. “Should we just keep talking, then?”
He manages to pick his head up enough to look at them again, considering - fondly concerned, the sun setting outside Tessa’s window and making her messy curls glow a warm bronze, Will smiling one of his rare genuine grins. Jem has an errant thought that if it’s this hard to lie to himself just seeing them onscreen he’s possibly not going to survive living with them. “Yes, that would be nice,” he says finally, wincing at the rasp of his own voice.
They start to debate books, of course, and Jem falls asleep with an affectionate smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
When he wakes up it’s dark and silent and he doesn’t hurt quite as much. He’ll enjoy it while it lasts. He prods at his laptop, grins at the messages waiting.
15:04, Tessa: don’t forget to take your medication
15:04, Will: and talk to your cat about staying off the computer
15:05, Tessa: we <3 you!!!
15:06, Will: yeah, you’re okay, i guess
15:06, Will: feel free to text me if you wanna talk more
15:06, Tessa: ^^^
Jem vehemently hopes that his cheeks are hot because he’s sick and for no other reason, and then he slips his pillow out from under his head to crush it into his face.
He’s so fucked .