Chapter Text
“I hate my head,” Matt groaned, resting his forehead on his arm, which was draped across the toilet seat. “If you would just cut it off, I’m sure I’d feel a lot better.”
“Maybe,” Foggy said, rubbing small circles on Matt’s back. “But I don’t really know how trustworthy a headless lawyer is. Might decrease the number of clients we’ll have someday.”
Matt groaned again, spit once more into the toilet, and pushed himself up off the ground. This wasn’t the first migraine Matt had ever had, and he figured it wouldn’t be the last either. Foggy put a steady, reassuring arm around him and helped guide him a couple feet to the right to the sink. Matt fumbled for one of the small paper cups they kept there, filled it with water, swished it around in his mouth, and spit. Foggy wanted to suggest some mouthwash or a quick brushing with toothpaste, but he also knew the taste of either one would send Matt right back to the religious act of praying to the porcelain gods again.
“You want to lie down?” Foggy asked. “Or do you think it would be better to stay in here for now?” Matt always ended up vomiting whenever he had a migraine. He always got all the classic symptoms of migraines: dizziness, nausea caused by almost any scent, vomiting, and sensitivity to sound. With Matt’s heightened senses, though, all of these things were much worse than if he were “normal.”
“I think I’m ok for now,” Matt said. “Just keep the trash can right next to my bed.”
Foggy led Matt back to his bed and helped him get comfortable, pulling the blankets over him, fluffing his pillow, making sure the blinds and curtains were closed so as to block out as much sound as possible. One of the first things Matt had bought when he started college several years ago, and made sure to bring to law school with him, was sound and light reducing curtains. He had a hard time finding ones that completely blocked out sound that would fit the windows in dorm rooms, but these worked well and Foggy also appreciated them when he would wake up the morning after having had a little too much to drink.
Matt heard Foggy walk back to the bathroom, then the sound of water in the sink, and then footsteps again. He let out another little moan, this one of relief, as Foggy laid a cold, wet washcloth on his forehead and over his eyes. “You sure you don’t want any of your pills?” Foggy asked softly.
Foggy had dragged Matt to the campus health clinic their first semester of law school together when he found him curled up on the floor of the shower, crying from how bad his migraine was. There had been a party on their floor and between the music, the yelling, and the smells of everything from beer and pizza to marijuana, Matt had taken refuge in the bathroom. The campus doctor had prescribed the most powerful pain reliever he was allowed to prescribe at the walk-in clinic. If somebody needed anything stronger, they had to go to the walk-in clinic that was literally three feet from where Columbia’s campus technically ended.
“I took some ibuprofen,” Matt said. Even ibuprofen was a lot for Matt, who wasn’t a health nut (he enjoyed such things as beer, chocolate, and pizza), but did work out on a regular basis and avoided putting medications into his body if he could keep from it. However, the regular strength ibuprofen, even at max dosage, wasn’t enough to cut through his migraines once they got started. If he could take a few of them when he felt the first tinglings of one coming on, they usually helped to dull the pain some and just make it a really bad headache. But this one had started sometime the night before when he was asleep. By the time the pain had woken him up, it was too late.
“Want me to leave?” Foggy asked. He still felt guilty about the time he had been trying to be really quiet when Matt had a migraine, but he had forgotten to silence the ringer on his cell phone. He had stepped out to ask a classmate of theirs who lived down the hall if he could borrow a library book that had some information in it he wanted for his research paper when the sounds of Aerosmith’s “Walk this Way” blasted through the room. The ringer had been on full volume. He had turned it up when he had been out at a bar a couple nights before and must have forgotten to turn it down. Foggy had gone running back, frantically trying to find his phone in the mess on his bed while Matt gripped his head in his hands and begged Foggy to make it stop.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if Matt hadn’t ended up throwing up in his bed due to the increased pain from the ring tone. Matt was in pain, embarrassed, and unable to change the sheets and blanket on his own bed. Foggy had helped him change into a clean pair of sweatpants and t-shirt, and had washed the sheets and blanket along with the rest of Matt’s laundry to try and make up for it, but he still felt guilty. He felt so guilty in fact, that he changed all his ring tones to a simple chirping bird.
“No,” Matt said. “Just…..just try to stay quiet, ok?”
“Yeah, of course,” Foggy said, grimacing at the memory again of the “cell phone incident” as he liked to call it. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will,” Matt said. “I’m just going to get some sleep.”
“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Foggy said, even though he knew with as much pain as Matt was in that he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He would shift around in his bed, lying on his back, then his side, then maybe his back again, then probably his stomach, making small whimpering noises and moans involuntarily every so often. “Trash can’s at the head of the bed, right side.”
Matt gave what he thought was a smile, but was really more of a pain filled grimace. “Thanks. I….I really appreciate you putting up with me when I’m like this.”
“It’s no problem,” Foggy said, adjusting the washcloth on Matt’s forehead. “Just rest and let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure thing,” Matt said, then he heard Foggy retreat to his side of the room and open a book.
Just as Foggy suspected, Matt spent the next couple hours shifting around in his bed, little moans escaping his mouth every so often. Foggy got up twice to rewet the wash cloth with cold water and place it back on Matt’s forehead. Matt tried to utter a thank you each time, but even talking was painful for him. Foggy figured this must have been a doozy. His mom got migraines sometimes. She actually took the pain medication that had been prescribed to her, but she still had to just close herself off in a dark, quiet room when one hit. She had only once forgotten to refill the prescription and Foggy’s dad ended up taking her to the emergency room. Foggy figured Matt was at a level of pain that would have driven anyone else to beg for an ER visit so they could get good drugs.
Finally, Matt drifted into a fitful sleep. Foggy’s stomach growled. He wanted food and more than just crackers or cereal. If he cooked anything in the microwave, the smell would probably wake up Matt and send him running to the bathroom again. He debated for several minutes over what to do and finally decided he could make a quick run to the cafeteria a couple buildings away. Foggy grabbed a pad of paper and a large pencil, the fat kind that children use sometimes when first learning to write. He pressed down hard on the paper and wrote three letters: E-A-T.
He and Matt had worked out this system where, as long as Foggy kept messages short, he could leave notes for Matt. Foggy pressed down into the paper hard enough that Matt would be able to feel the three letters and would know Foggy had stepped out for lunch. This didn’t work with long notes but simple things like eat, Josie’s (the bar they liked to hang out in), library, and date, worked out well. He left the pad of paper on Matt’s night stand, grabbed his phone and wallet, and slipped out the door.
Foggy hurried to the cafeteria, grabbed a pre-made sandwich, chips, and soda, paid, and then ate in a hurry. He didn’t like being away from Matt when he was suffering from one of his migraines, but he also knew he needed to eat or he would get a hunger headache. Foggy hurried back upstairs and found Matt sitting up in bed, holding the trash can in his lap, and staring at it. Well, staring as much as a blind guy could stare. Foggy rushed over to him.
“Matt, you ok?”
“I can’t decide if I’m going to throw up or not,” Matt replied in a shaky voice.
Foggy grabbed the wash cloth that had fallen onto the bed, rewet it, and draped it on the back of Matt’s neck. He then wedged himself behind Matt and started to rub his back and shoulders. He knew that would help ease some of the tension and pain and, oddly, would actually help Matt’s body decide if it was going to throw up or not. After several minutes, Matt tentatively put the trash can back down on the floor.
“How’s your head?” Foggy asked, taking the wash cloth and wiping Matt’s overheated face and neck. Matt never technically got a fever with the migraines, but his body would alternate between being overheated and having chills.
“It’s actually a little better. Not gone yet, but downgraded.”
“We have some crackers and flat ginger ale. Do you think your stomach can handle anything yet?” Foggy asked hesitantly. He knew Matt needed to stay hydrated, but he also didn’t want him to have to go through another round of vomiting. As soon as Foggy realized that Matt was suffering from a migraine, he had opened a can, poured it into a cup, and set it in the mini fridge so it would start losing its carbonation. Flat ginger ale was better than fresh. The carbonation might end up making Matt’s stomach upset again.
“I’ll try some ginger ale,” Matt said.
Foggy grabbed the cup out of the fridge and poured half into another cup before handing it to Matt. Matt took a tentative sip, then another. Foggy stayed at the ready to shove the trash can in Matt’s hands if he needed it.
“Talk to me,” Matt said to Foggy.
“Come again?” Foggy said, surprised that Matt was wanting to have a conversation. His head really must have been beginning to feel better.
“Well, I know you’re sitting at the foot of my bed just staring at me drink this. Might as well have a conversation while you wait to see if I hurl or not,” Matt said, smiling a little, before wincing in pain again.
Foggy gave a little laugh. “Ok,” he said, then started in on how this librarian in the law library took great pleasure out of stalking the stacks, looking for anyone who might be mistreating the precious library books. He kept talking as Matt finished the soda, then slid back under the covers and closed his eyes. “Get some sleep Matt,” Foggy said, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead. He could tell by Matt’s relaxed state that the worst of the migraine was gone. He would still have a headache for several hours, maybe even through the night, but he was on the mend.
Sure enough, Matt slept through the night, only getting up once to use the bathroom and drink the rest of the flat ginger ale. Foggy made a mental note to make sure and push fluids into Matt the next day, to rehydrate him. He didn’t want Matt to get a headache from dehydration after just getting over a migraine. Foggy finally must have drifted off into a pretty deep sleep because he didn’t wake up again until the next morning.
“Matt,” he called, when he saw that his bed was empty.
Matt came out of the bathroom. He had obviously taken a shower and changed into fresh pajama pants and a t-shirt. He looked worlds better. “Hey,” Matt said, sitting down on his bed and sipping at a bottle of water.
“Headache gone?” Foggy asked.
“Yeah. I still feel a little fuzzy. I don’t really want to go out today and do anything. Maybe just listen to a movie and take a nap or two.”
“That sounds like a great plan,” Foggy said, as he got out of bed and headed into the bathroom to take a shower of his own. It was Sunday, so the dorm would be relatively quiet, at least until the afternoon. It was beginning to rain outside and today would be the perfect day for just lounging around and letting Matt rest before classes the next day.
“Hey Foggy,” Matt said.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for, you know, taking care of me. And for not cutting off my head when I asked you to.”
Foggy shrugged. “Hey, I need my best friend to have a head. You’d look a little odd otherwise.”
"I guess I would,” Matt said, chuckling. “I still really hate my head sometimes though.”