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The first hundred times it’s no big deal, of course. He complains, of course, because it’s the thing he does when he’s feeling any sort of way. It’s not that he ignores it, it’s just that whenever one of the humans says something far too sincere about chronic pain it feels like he’s flown too close to the sun. Back up, back up, they believe you, so you must be lying. That’s how it goes for a few sweeps. Eventually, he tries not to complain. Eventually, it grows to the point he has to pay attention, on his own time. Eventually he goes back to complaining, because he’s tired of keeping it all in him. He gets used to the responses, eventually. It starts to feel like he’s going to have to believe them. No, he doesn’t: He’s invented his pain. He’s always invented his pain, that’s the way he is. That’s the way it is, to live his life.
Besides. It’s untenable. He can’t afford this nonsense. That’s a culling offense; that’s not real. That’s not something one just admits. Besides, it’s not a single pain, it’s nothing he can target, nothing he can just remove. It doesn’t stay still, it doesn’t have a home, he can’t rip out some organ and be free of it, so it must not be anything at all.
Right now it’s a weird, aching stab across the right side of his thoracic cage. It’s persistent, it’s noticeable, but it refuses to choose one spot to stick to. Shifting positions doesn’t help. Hours or days from now, he’ll be feeling it in a completely different part of his organ chamber. There’s no injury, and he doubts the small handful of people left alive could have any clue what could be causing it.
But he can alchemize ibuprofen and ignore it, usually.
Right now, he’s lying on the couch, because his hands are being obnoxious too; any time he tries to do something fine-motor, like cleaning his guns, or fishing, or helping in the garden, or assembling his histories, his arms start to shake, and it takes an active effort to work through. He doesn’t feel like putting up with it, so he’s lying on the couch instead of doing anything at all worth his while.
It’s a boring fucking life.
At least he’s not dead.
At least his species no longer hinges on his motor skills.
Fuck, he’s useless.
The pillow under his head is not quite cushy enough and the headache he's got coming on is starting to make his horns ache a little anywhere they are pushing on any surface or his skull. He wants a glass of water, two acetaminophen, and not to be thinking. Standing seems like an expensive waste of effort.
If he could get up, and walk across the room, and get a glass of water, and sit back down, and open the pill bottle that is right next to him here on the couch without having to focus all his muscles on the action, and then took a pill, then he'd still have to wait twenty minutes to start noticing any improvement in how he feels, and if he takes too many of them he could get liver failure as a nice special treat. But at least he wouldn't be in pain. Maybe he could subject Tavros to collapsing across his broad shoulders, gently capsize him til the two of them are pasted to the dirt in the garden, make some casual snide comment that makes him laugh.
He can count the cracks in the ceiling. He finds bugs in here sometimes; he used to freak the fuck out when he found a bug, but he doesn't have the energy to anymore. They put up a fly strip. It only helps with the flies. He shuts his stupid orbs and doesn't think about it.
Eridan sighs, and it makes that ache in his chest stab a little, and he grimaces.
The door opens, and he catches the tap-tap-click of Tavros's gait. He listens to him shuck his boots and put on his sandals. The man is a fucking fashion disaster, but he came to terms with that years ago, and at some point it became endearing instead.
"You're taking up the whole couch," Tavros says, a little laugh in his voice.
"Take it up with my thoracic cage," Eridan mutters. He doesn't open his eyes. Tavros sits down next to his head. He runs his fronds through his forelock, a claw brushing against his glasses. They're digging into his fins, actually, he kind of wants to take them off.
"Do you want me to get you something for that?"
The wave of relief crashes headlong into the wave of guilt that follows it, but he swallows and nods, because this is his moirail, and he's not allowed to just pretend he's fine around his moirail. It violates some kind of code of adult troll behavior.
"Glass'a water w-would be nice," he says. "The meds are right there but I don't wanna open em."
Tavros pets you a little bit more. "That's not so much," he says. "Do you think you can sit up?"
"I can, I just don't wanna."
"Well, don't bother yet, I guess, unless you change your mind," he says, because he's a dork, and then he gets up slowly, because he's just as broken as you in a more pins and needles numbness sort of way that didn't leave even when Equius gave him a re-wire. Vriska, the lucky bitch, never had a problem. It's something to do with it being his spine. Just as stupid and bad as random body pain and the shakes. At least he knows why.
He pushes himself into a sitting position without much effort when he hears the faucet run in the nutritionblock. It doesn't take effort, but it is disorienting; his head protests, and his abdomen protests, like the idiot bitch fucker isn't designed to support his shitty body. There's no good angle to support his head sitting up, so he curls a little bit to the side so he can put the heavy thing down on the back of the couch.
When Tavros sits down next to Eridan, he pushes himself right up against him and Eridan finds his head on Tav's shoulder. He's got those funny indigo gloves on, the ones that make his hands hurt less, that Gam gave him. He reaches across Eridan and grabs the bottle of pills, tucking the glass of water between his metal knees. He uncaps it with enviable ease and taps two onto his hand. He doesn't have to read the bottle; they've all done this a billion times.
Eridan opens his mouth, because he's a wiggler. Tavros snorts and drops the pills in his mouth. "Drink the water yourself, you dork," he says, and Eridan does his best, even if holding the glass is kind of hard. He moves to put it down before it's empty and Tav stops him. Eridan grimaces.
"You know it's hard for me to hold this thing, right?"
"Drinking a whole glass of water will help, though. Just do it quick."
Eridan rolls his eyes and finishes the glass. He puts it down and puts his head back on Tavros's convenient shoulder real estate.
"Sometimes I w," Eridan says, and stops, staring through the glow of the evening. "Am I worthless?"
"I don't think, that you can just ask your moirail that with a straight face, I don't think that's reasonable, or even, like, appropriate. Am I worthless, finbo?
"Oh my gog on a stick, don't call me finbo."
"You're a fish himbo, with ruffleable hair. Want to help in the garden? I told Gam I was checking on you."
Eridan twitches. Tavros laughs. He's probably got some kind of stupid expression on his face; He's not going to make more of a fool of himself by opening his mouth.
"I can tell him to take it easy on you," he says. "If you're feeling delicate."
"Don't fuckin' say things like that, I can handle Gamzee, I just hate him," Eridan growls limply, because he's still all twitchy and awful, and Tavros is totally taking advantage of that. "Shore. We can go fuckin' do something. In a minute."
"Take as many minutes as you like," Tavros says.