Corbyn slouched down on the couch, mindlessly flicking through TV stations. He'd been nothing but bored since quarantine started. They were a few months in and he was missing the studio. Stuck at home, he really wished he had something else to do. After three weeks straight of pumping out songs, his creative streak was over and he was in the bored mindset now. Ordinarily, he would have wanted to play his song to the band, see what they were thinking. And while they texted ideas back and forth, nothing compared to being in a studio together, being able to plug your phone into a speaker and hear the music out loud so everyone could listen together. It felt a lot safer when you were there and could judge the reactions in the room.
He'd been looking for some new hobbies. Anything would work, really. Drawing occupied a bit of his time, but he got halfway through a drawing of a lunar module before he gave up. Then he tried swimming in the pool in his backyard, but swimming laps got tiring fast, and there wasn't much fun in having a pool with nobody else there.
At least he had one useful hobby he was trying to pick up-- cooking. Before quarantine, his culinary skills amounted to pouring himself a bowl of cereal, or making a sandwich. That was good enough when he was with the rest of the band, when their label was paying them enough money that they could afford to order food delivery most of the time.
Now, he wanted to really learn. He was tired of eating tasteless, simple meals that came from the frozen aisle of the grocery store. So, when it came time to go grocery shopping, he collected some recipes, donned a mask, and picked out the perfect ingredients.
His first trial run in the kitchen was chaotic, to say the least. He thought he could manage making a spaghetti and meatballs dish, with chocolate chip cookies afterwards. It was simple... or so he thought. By the end of his cooking escapade, there was flour all over a counter, tomato sauce smeared in the sink, and his apron was covered in random food splatters. The food was... fine. The meatballs might have been falling apart, he might have served an overly massive portion of spaghetti, and perhaps the cookies were a little... burnt. But, hey, it was edible. Kind of.
But he was convinced he could do better. If not for his own sake, then for the sake of being able to sing his song "Friends" without feeling a pinch of guilt every time he lied when he sang about his cooking skills.
It was lunch the next day that changed the game. Corbyn had been thinking about a shrimp fettuccine alfredo that he'd tried back when the boys were on tour in Europe. He was hoping that maybe he could recreate it by himself. Carefully watching out for the mistakes he'd made the previous day, he actually ended up with something that looked fairly decent. He was happy enough to send a picture to his family group chat, proud of his accomplishment.
He sat down at the TV to eat his finished meal, switching on the news. It was sad, as always, hearing about the cases and deaths, the nursing homes and hospitals and frontline workers. More than anything, he wanted to do something to help. The social media break that the band was on blocked him from posting, so he couldn't try to start fundraising, or do any online concerts, or anything. It was frustrating how much he wanted to help, but couldn't.
The news ended, and a documentary about some sort of endangered frog species began to play. Uninterested, Corbyn switched off the TV, kicking his legs off the couch and walking upstairs, his bare feet brushing against the smooth hardwood. Mildly amused, he decided to hop the last step--
and managed to stub his toe.
Grabbing his foot, he hopped over to his bedroom, and flopped on the bed, rubbing his toe gently. "That's a shame." he mumbled to himself, checking to see if a bruise was forming or anything. But his toe looked fine, so he shook it out and rolled over to lie on his back. It was actually quite comfortable on his bed, and he felt his eyes closing as he slowly fell asleep.
~~~~~~
He was awoken by a horrible feeling, almost like he was going to--
Oh no.
Corbyn sat up in bed, flinging the sheets off himself as he sprinted to the bathroom, his hand pressed against his mouth. A horrible sound emitted from his throat as he kneeled in front of the toilet, his stomach expelling its contents in a rapid fashion.
Tears blurred his eyes and he braced himself against the wall, breathing heavy. He wiped the spit off his chin, internally cringing.
I'm so disgusting.
He closed his eyes for just a second, trying to calm down, when another wave of nausea swept over him and he found himself leaning over the toilet bowl once more. The half-digested remains of his lunch stared back at him. Shuddering, he flushed the toilet and closed the lid, not wanting to look at his mess.
A horrible cramp leapt into his stomach and he felt tears spring to his eyes. "No, no, oh my god." He tried to stop himself, to sit himself upright, but he was in so much pain that all he could do was lie on the floor, curl himself up into a ball, and hope it went away.
He heard his phone ring from the bedroom, looking in the general direction of the door warily. In his mind, a debate was alight: should he try to get the phone? Was it a worthy sacrifice?
Sighing in defeat, he scrambled to his feet and made a cringing attempt to jog to the bedroom, hunched over in pain. He grabbed the phone with his clean hand, answering the call without even looking to see who it was.
"Hello?" he half groaned, feeling absolutely miserable.
"Hey, bro." It was Jonah. "I just wanted to ask if you've heard anything from Daniel lately."
"Um, I don't think I have." Corbyn hobbled to the sink, rinsing his mouth and scrubbing his hands clean.
"Okay." Jonah replied. "I'm just really worried about him. He hasn't messaged any of us in a while. Should I check in on him?"
"Yeah, you do you." Corbyn mumbled, drying his hands on a towel. "Speaking of, how have you been?"
"Eh, alright I guess." Corbyn could imagine Jonah's shrug through the phone. "It's actually been really nice staying here with my family. How's it going for you? I hope you're not lonely all by yourself in L.A."
Corbyn was trying to fight the nauseous feeling that was rocking his body. "Oh yeah... I'm great. Things are going... good. Have you written any music lately?"
"Oh, are you kidding? So much." Jonah half-laughed, half-sighed. "Honestly, all this virus and everything is making me get into all these moods, perfect for songwriting."
"I'll bet." Corbyn massaged his temples. "Hey, my mom is calling me on the other line, can we talk later?" It was a lie-- he always called his mom at 8 PM, after dinner. But he couldn't withstand pretending to be fine when he felt horrible.
"Sure, bro, talk to you later." Jonah hung up.
Corbyn tossed his phone on the bed, flopping down beside it. Yeah, he felt a little guilty for lying to Jonah, but at this point he felt so sick that he'd rather lie down than catch up with his friend. He let out what was probably best described as a mixture of a whimper and a moan, gingerly curling up into a ball. His face scrunched up in pain, and every breath he took felt labored.
"This hurts so bad..." he whispered to himself. His mind was engaged in a debate-- should he get out of bed, look for medicine in the house? Or was it better to just stay there, lie in bed until he started feeling better?
He lay there for a few moments, the pain practically eating him away.
It won't get any better if I don't do anything about it.
Tears flooded his eyes as he stepped off his bed, hunched over weakly. I wish I wasn't alone right now.
He carefully walked towards the door, but as soon as his hand touched the cool metal of the doorknob, he felt a spasm of pain through his stomach, turning his legs into jelly. He slumped down against the door, one hand raised above him and holding on to the doorknob.
He choked back a sob. He hated this, feeling so helpless and weak, knowing that nobody was there to help him. And it wasn't like anyone could come over, not with the virus spreading around.
He ran a hand through his hair, which was long and scruffy since he hadn't been able to get it cut. The blonde in it had faded, leaving him with a light brown mop of hair. It wasn't like he could accomplish anything by being on the ground.
He took a deep breath, getting up and opening the door. He leaned against the walls as he walked towards the staircase, and once he got there, he sat down on the first step, carefully lowering himself down until he could sit on the next step. It felt stupid to have to inch his way down the stairs, but he was afraid something would happen and he'd fall down the stairs.
It took a while before he managed to make his way down the stairs, walking to the kitchen cabinet where they stored all their medicine. Their manager had insisted that all medicine be placed in the cabinet, so they could all share, and so that nobody would take too many of anything.
Corbyn opened the cabinet, groaning at the ache in his entire body. It was nearly empty, there was nothing to help him. But he noticed the thermometer and decided to take his temperature.
102.7.
He sighed, cleaning the thermometer and putting it back.
It's not that bad of a fever. I'm probably just tired because I'm hungry.
He poured himself a glass of water and took a yogurt cup from the fridge. Grabbing a spoon, Corbyn ate quietly, finished his water, and stared out the window. The trees and the grass and the sky were as bright and beautiful as ever, but he just didn't want to move at all.
Still, the food had helped, so he made his way back upstairs and lay on his bed, hoping he could just sleep it off.
~~~
Corbyn awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. Groaning tiredly, he squished a pillow over his head, hoping it would drown out the noise. Hopefully it was a wrong number, and they'd hang up.
When it didn't stop ringing, he trained, flipping his pillow over and grabbing his phone. "Hello?"
"Hey, sweetie, did you forget our 8 PM call?"
"Mom?" Corbyn mumbled, "It's already 8? I'm so sorry, I didn't notice, I fell asleep."
"You and your naps." she laughed. "So, how was your day? What did you try to cook?"
Corbyn chuckled, his smile slowly diminishing. "I mean, I tried to cook that shrimp fettuccine alfredo that I told you about... remember it? But I don't think I cooked it right, I've been feeling sick all day."
"Aww, really? Are you alright? Do you need anything?"
He sighed. "I'm fine, I guess. I miss you."
"Miss you too." she said.
Corbyn sat up in bed. "So, how have you been? Did you do anything fun today?"
"Well, actually, funny story," she said, "you know how I always wanted to start my own herb garden? Well--"
Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his stomach.
"Oh no..." he whispered, muting the speaker on his phone. He didn't want his mom hearing anything that was about to go down.
She continued, oblivious."And it was so adorable,the little rows of rosemary plants in the nursery--"
Corbyn's stomach lurched, and he ran to the bathroom, slapping his phone on the counter as he released the contents of his stomach for the third time that day. Frustrated tears filled his eyes. I just want this all to end.
In the background, his mother was still speaking. "And then I saw the mint, the cilantro, and I thought to myself, what better time to get all these and start a garden?"
He flushed the toilet, washing his hands and halfheartedly wiping them on his sweatpants.
"So, yeah, the next time you visit, we'll have some fresh mints straight from the garden!" He could hear the excitement in his mother's voice. Not wanting to dampen the mood, he decided to follow along with the conversation.
"Mom, that sounds awesome. I hope I get to see you soon. How has everyone been?"
"Oh, they're goofballs, as usual." She laughed. "We're actually going to watch a movie tonight, so I'm going to over and join them on the couch. Is there anything you want to talk about?"
"Nope, I'm totally great. Hope you like the movie." Corbyn said, a false pep in his voice. "Love you."
"Love you too, honey. Call me if you get lonely." his mom replied. He heard the beep as she hung up, sighing and putting his phone down.
The weird pain in his stomach was still there, so he thought maybe he could do some exercise and get it to go away. But even standing up from bed hurt, so he settled for just snuggling in bed.
Exhausted, Corbyn flicked on Netflix, but none of the shows in his recommended looked like they would brighten his mood, turning it off. He stared blankly at the black screen, flipping through the channels in his mind and looking for any drop of motivation.
But there was none, and he fell asleep in the silence, all alone in the big house.
~~~
He woke up to a phone call. Eyes still scrunched closed, he felt his hands around the bed, finally landing on his phone and picking up the call, resting the phone on his cheek so it would stay up.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
The voice alone caused his eyes to pop open. He quickly sat up in bed, running his hand through his hair. "Christina? Hey, beautiful." He smiled lazily, seeing her face on the screen. "Why are you calling me so early?"
"Early? Seriously, babe? It's 2 in the afternoon."
"Oh, god." Corbyn rubbed his eyes and glanced over at the clock on his wall. "I forgot to set my alarm. But it doesn't really matter, does it?"
"Does it? You're missing out on the whole day." his girlfriend laughed. "But your hair looks so cute all messy like that, so I don't mind."
"Nah, you're cuter." Corbyn grinned as he saw her eyes light up the tiniest bit.
"So," she asked, "how are you? Did you cook something actually good for dinner last night?"
"Oh... I guess I forgot to eat dinner." he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
"Wait, what do you mean you forgot? I know you, you never forget to eat. Are you okay?" Her eyebrows bunched up in the middle, something she did when she was worried.
"Eh, I just wasn't feeling that well." he mumbled, trying to shrug it off. "But--"
"No, no, no, you're not going to change the topic. Are you okay? Really?" She frowned. "I know you're all alone in L.A. and if you're not okay, you bet your butt I'm going to find a flight and go take care of you." She had the little determined spark in her face now.
"Seriously, I'm fine." Corbyn gently felt his stomach, out of view of his phone camera. To his surprise, it didn't hurt at all. "Actually, I think I'm all better now."
"Okay. But I'm not letting you get hurt on my watch!" Christina joked. "Do you want me to send you a healing crystal?"
"No," he laughed, "really, I'm fine. Have you gotten to organizing your Fabletics stuff from last month yet?"
"Aww," Christina groaned, "did you have to remind me? I swear it's the one thing I can't get to doing."
"Hey, I love you, but Fabletics isn't paying you to not wear their stuff." Corbyn laughed.
"I know! I'm trying, I swear. I just don't go out enough to actually wear clean clothes." She spun around in her swivel chair.
"Ah, you're the cutest human being ever." Corbyn smiled.
"Okay, well, go eat." Christina insisted. "If you didn't eat dinner last night, that's a long time for you to go without eating."
"Okay, okay." he said, getting out of bed. "I will. I love you."
"I love you too." She blew him a kiss as the call ended.
Corbyn walked to his bedroom door, a smile melting over his face as he realized his stomach truly did no longer hurt.
Maybe he was alone in quarantine, but his friends and family would always be there.
~~~~~~
~~~~~~
~~~~~~
So I kind of wrote most of this in March, when quarantine had just started, and so a lot has changed since then... this is probably not entirely accurate anymore haha!
Anyways, I haven't written in a while, so hopefully you don't mind that much :)