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From the moment he wakes up, Anthony knows it’s going to be a bad day. He’s frustrated before he even rolls over in bed. Heavy pain burrows into him far below the surface, settled deep in his bones. His joints ache, and he has yet to even move. Nerve pain zips like electricity through his legs. It’s a different pain than the one in his joints, but it hurts nonetheless.
Anthony can hear Tim making breakfast in the kitchen downstairs. It feels like a world away. He’d come if Anthony called for him, but Anthony is always reluctant to give up his independence, even on bad pain days. The I Have To Do It Myself mindset has gotten him into trouble more times than he can count. Though evidently not enough to stop him.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed until his feet touch the floor. He groans. Anthony isn’t sure if he’d rather grab at his spinning head or reach for his aching knees. It’s going to be a “stay in bed and be doted on” kind of day; he can tell.
Anthony tries to rack his brain enough to determine what day of the week it is. He comes up empty-handed. Truthfully, even with full cognitive function, he still may not have been able to make the determination. Anthony prays it’s a day when Tim doesn’t have to work. There are no work clothes draped over the nearby chair, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Tim doesn’t typically forget to pull out his clothes the night before, but it isn’t inconceivable. There’s also the potential that he’s already dressed, especially if they needed him to come early. He can’t help but wish hopefully.
Forcing himself forward despite the pain, Anthony manages to stumble to the bathroom. His body threatens to fail him every step of the way, but Anthony makes it unscathed with some assistance from the walls and doorways. He has to sit to brush his teeth, but he gets it done, and that’s all that matters. Bright mint on his tongue doesn’t make him feel any better, but it does make him feel more human , and that’s still something.
Anthony knows he definitely can’t make it downstairs. He drags himself back to bed, feeling equally frustrated and guilty. He scrubs his hands down his face. He wishes he could just go back to sleep and wake up and try all over again. Maybe he can wake up in a different body if he prays hard enough.
Anthony frowns as Tim pushes open the bedroom door. He’s in his work clothes—button-up shirt with the sleeves temporarily rolled up to his elbows, black slacks, shoes that shine with polish. He’s holding two plates of food in his hands, smiling brightly at Anthony. “Hey, baby,” he greets. “Sleep well?”
Anthony has a decision to make. He could admit that he’s feeling poorly—the decision Tim wants him to make—or he could smile and tough it out and pretend that everything is fine. Tim would see right through him anyway. The second Tim meets his eyes, he’ll notice the pain, the exhaustion, the frustration, all of the emotions Anthony is trying (and failing) to hide.
He whines softly. Tim nods understandingly, no words needed. There’s a small frown on his face as he sits down on the mattress next to Anthony. He tries not to jostle him too much.
“Your hands feeling okay today?”
The answer is no, but Anthony nods anyway. If he were to be honest, Tim would insist on feeding him, and that would negate the whole independence facade Anthony is going for. He huffs as he fumbles with his fork. Tim itches to help, but then Anthony gets a grip on the handle. He watches carefully as Anthony brings scrambled eggs to his mouth with shaky hands. Tim is grateful that he didn’t pick something requiring a knife. Anthony certainly wouldn’t have been able to handle that much on his own.
Tim can tell that Anthony isn’t doing well, but he lets him maintain some of his dignity. He’ll inevitably have to ask for help soon anyway. He reaches over, ruffling Anthony’s hair, similarly to how he may pet a dog. Anthony smiles around a mouthful of raspberries. Bright red juice decorates the corners of his lips. Tim smiles back at him. For the moment, Anthony seems to be content. Tim continues watching his body language anyway, just to be sure, but it seems like whatever is bothering him can wait…for now.
There’s something domestic and peaceful about sitting next to each other like this. The morning is quiet around them, cawing birds and rumbling car engines muffled behind thick window panes. They sit in comfortable silence, nothing more to be heard than forks scraping against ceramic plates and the faint sound of swallowing.
It seems Tim’s choices for breakfast were a success today. Anthony is somewhat of a picky eater at times, so mealtimes are always a battle. Working with Anthony’s limited list of “acceptable foods” while trying to get him to eat complete meals is difficult, but Tim is used to it. Chicken tenders and spaghetti & meatballs are crowd pleasers every time, safe foods to fall back on when all else fails.
Anthony stares down at his plate, now cleared of all food. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand that he’d like a sip of, but he can’t make his body cooperate enough to do so. Turning, grabbing, and swallowing will all be burdensome. Anthony feels exhausted already. He has no idea how he’s meant to be a functional human being in these circumstances.
Tim’s attentive eyes are on Anthony as he says, “I’m not doing good today.”
As glad as Tim is to see Anthony voicing his emotions, the admission is not necessarily a good thing. Typically, Anthony keeps his pain inside. Whether it’s because he thinks it’s a sign of weakness or he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, Tim isn’t sure. Voicing his displeasure means it's worse than usual. Whatever Anthony is dealing with clearly goes beyond what he classifies as everyday pain .
“Okay,” Tim says. “What hurts?”
Anthony shrugs. “I don’t know. Everything.”
Everything isn’t helpful, but Anthony is using his words, so Tim really can’t complain much. He knows getting a grip on his words and emotions when he’s in such pain is difficult. He tries not to think about how bad it must be for Anthony to be asking for help. “Baby, can you be a little bit more specific?”
“It’s the same old shit,” Anthony sighs. There’s a hint of frustration in his words. “My joints are really bad today, though. I don’t feel too steady. I should probably tape my knees, but it’s not a good hands day—I’m sorry I lied to you about that—and I just…I just don’t feel good.”
Tim nods sympathetically. He knows he’ll never understand what Anthony is feeling. Over the years, he’s learned how to help, but he can’t take it away. Tim would shoulder all of his pain if he could. Anthony just needs to make it through the day, and maybe he’ll feel better tomorrow, or maybe he won’t. Tim will be there for him either way.
“Did you take your medicine?” Tim asks, knowing the answer.
Anthony cringes. “I…they’re over on the dresser, I can’t get them.”
Tim has tried to convince Anthony to leave them on the nightstand, but he hasn’t yet managed to get him to agree. He places both of their dirty dishes aside as he makes his way towards the dresser. Halfway there, Anthony stops him, “Hey, uh…can you get the stronger pain meds for me? Please?”
Tim pauses. “You need the narcotics?”
“Please,”
It’s a worse day than Tim thought, then. He’s surprised he was able to get any food into Anthony at all. He likely did it more to appease Tim than anything else, but he’ll take the win. Small victories are still significant, especially on days like this.
Tim retrieves the Hydrocodone from the locked box in their closet. It ends up in his fist with Anthony’s normal daily meds (with the typical painkiller removed). The bad hands day has Tim placing the pills directly onto Anthony’s tongue. The promise of pain relief has Anthony swallowing the capsules more easily than Tim expected. Vitamins, antidepressants, beta blockers, and a myriad of other pills mix with the breakfast and minimal water in Anthony’s stomach. It’s over quickly, but Anthony whimpers regardless.
Floundering, Tim tries to think of anything he can to make Anthony feel better. Reasonably, he knows there isn’t much he can do. Anthony pushes up on his hands as he shifts on the bed. Tim’s heart breaks watching his face contort as he does so.
“Would some ice help? Maybe your heating pad?”
Anthony shakes his head. “Nothing is going to help.”
Tim reminds himself that Anthony isn’t trying to be stubborn. Truth be told, Tim would probably be a raging bitch if he had to deal with half of what Anthony has in his lifetime. Fuck, Tim’s not sure he would even survive it . In the five years that Tim has known Anthony, the other man has gone through inconceivable amounts of suffering. Weeks-long hospital stays, multiple surgeries, central lines, medication infusions, and near-daily doctors' appointments as they bounce between specialists. Tim has stuck with him through it all, despite how many times Anthony has reminded him that he wouldn’t blame him if he left. Anthony can’t help but feel inconvenient, like a bother, like Tim could do so much better . Tim knows it won’t get better than Anthony. Tim doesn’t want—would never want—anyone but Anthony. He has said so several times. He’s made peace with the fact that Anthony will never believe him. He'll tell him as many times as he needs to hear it.
Tim leans down, kissing Anthony on the forehead. He’s cold underneath him, as he always is, so at least Tim knows he doesn’t have a fever. This isn’t one of those times when Anthony’s body freaks out as his immune system fights off a virus. This is Anthony’s body rebelling simply because it can . Anthony has to suffer for no good reason. Tim blinks away tears as he cups Anthony’s cheek in his hand. He feels useless.
“Can I get you anything?” he says quietly.
Anthony hums. He tilts his head up towards Tim. Wordlessly, Tim leans down and kisses him. Even when Anthony can’t muster up the words to say what he needs, Tim always seems to know. Anthony kisses back, soft and sweet.
“I think my weighted blanket might help,” Anthony says as they part. “I’m probably going to try to go back to sleep.”
Tim nods. He isn’t surprised. If the pain wasn’t enough to make him want to lie down, the Hydrocodone always makes him drowsy. Fifteen pounds isn’t light. Regardless of how strong Tim has gotten from carrying Anthony around on his bad days, it's still difficult to heave it onto the bed. Anthony giggles at his struggle. Tim rolls his eyes fondly. It’s good to hear Anthony laugh, even if it is at his own expense.
Tim drapes the blanket over Anthony. He tries to make sure the weight is evenly distributed across his body, but it appears not to matter anyway. The pressure is a steady comfort against him. The creases slowly fade from his face, tension washing away as he sinks into the mattress.
“Comfortable?” Tim checks.
Anthony hums. He looks at Tim through half-lidded eyes, already struggling to stay open. Tim smiles at him. “Yeah, babe, I’m good,” he says. His words are slurred, the narcotic’s effects making their presence known. “Thank you. I know this sucks. I love you.”
“I love you,” Tim says. “It doesn’t suck. I just hate seeing you in this much pain.”
Anthony shrugs. “It’ll get better. Eventually.”
“Eventually,” Tim nods. “Hopefully the meds will help.”
Anthony hums, words escaping him. That’s fine. Tim doesn’t need a response. He turns away from his boyfriend, working the buttons on his dress shirt. He types a message to his boss, explaining that he won’t be making it for his shift. His managers know about Anthony’s disability. They’re generally pretty lenient about his absences as a result. Additional work when he gets into the office tomorrow will be worth it. Anthony needs him, even though he won’t admit it.
Anthony doesn’t notice as Tim changes from business casual to comfort. His black button-up and slacks get swapped for an oversized t-shirt and boxers. He takes the time to clean up the bedroom around them, throwing clothes in the hamper and bringing their dishes back to the kitchen. He doesn’t bother cleaning them, leaving them in the sink for later. Maybe Anthony will feel well enough to come downstairs for lunch or dinner, and he can keep him in his line of sight as he washes them. If he’s lucky, Anthony will be up for a movie, something familiar and comforting, likely animated. He’ll be asleep before it’s over, but they’ll both enjoy it regardless.
Back upstairs, Tim slides into bed beside Anthony. He pulls him back into his chest gently, careful not to hurt him. Tim takes care to make sure Anthony stays tucked under the weighted blanket. It’s cumbersome to move him around with the extra few pounds, but he manages. Tim slides forward until he’s pressed against Anthony, nose in the crook of his neck. He smells like sweat and the undercurrents of his body wash. He feels like home, slotting perfectly into Tim’s arms.
“You have to go to work.” Anthony mumbles sleepily.
“Sh, baby,” Tim soothes, kissing Anthony's neck. “Go to sleep, honey, I’ve got you.”
Anthony feels guilty for keeping Tim home, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. As much as he wants to argue, the weight on top of him and the warmth behind him have him feeling cozy and tired. He can’t fight sleep any longer. He’s snoring in Tim’s arms just moments later.
Satisfied that Anthony is safe, Tim allows himself to doze, too. It’ll be a slow, easy day. Tim will take care of Anthony, and Anthony will complain about it even though it makes him feel loved and appreciated , and it’ll be a practiced routine of home-cooked meals, scheduled medications, bubbly giggles, and whispered “I love you”s. Anthony will smile despite the pain, and that alone will make it the perfect day, as untraditional as it may be.