If he was asked to pick the most difficult part of his disease, Alan would say that experiencing his attacks along was the worst. Even worse than knowing his time was limited - he had made peace with his own death years ago - or having to let his friends know that his immortality had been revoked. Feeling the creeping Thorns start constricting when there was no one nearby to support him was indescribable. Though having to be lifted back into his chair by Mr. Spears or being fussed over by Grell was embarrassing, being alone for the attack was worse.
For it was in solitude that his unique existence seemed the loneliest.
Alan especially hated it when the attack happened while he was at the office. But, unfortunately, it was inevitable. So when he felt the beginnings of one on a blustery Wednesday in the middle of February, his first thought was Good lord, not again. His next thought was pain.
There was not a thing he could do. All he was capable of was clinging to the leg of the desk as he slid to the floor, gasping and clutching at his chest as though to steady the turmoil within it. His only hope was to ride out the attack and then, after it was finally over, somehow find the way to carry on as though he wasn't dying with each moment.
Dimly, as though from underwater, Alan heard a voice. "Breathe, Al. Don't worry. I've got y'right here. It'll be fine. Just hold on." He noticed that he wasn't quite as cold, and he had a grip on a soft hand rather than the wooden desk. The pain wasn't quite as bad as it had been. In between gasps for breath, someone was tenderly stroking his hair. Eric.
His attacks weren't easily made more comfortable, but Alan was hard pressed to find a place he'd rather be than in Eric's arms.
What's 'fitting the theme'?