Kib wakes up first. This has always been the case. He kisses his sleeping husband and gets up, prompting Charp to start making breakfast and boiling a kettle so Aydanci can have tea whenever he's up. Kib finished a book yesterday, so he picks up a new one. He should make some more storks if he can't think of anything useful to do with the day; the world can always use more storks.
Kib snaps his fingers a couple of times and his chair comes running. "Here. What's wrong?"
"Yes milord," replies Charp from the kitchen. It is along presently with a glass of water.
... He is sort of wheezing. Strange, he hasn't done anything strenuous.
"Okay. Better to have Charp carry you -" Charp picks Aydanci up; Kib can pilot the chair faster and Charp's got a quick smooth gait when it wants. Out they go. "This is sudden? You felt all right when you woke up?"
"... Feeling lightheaded and my fingers are tingly," he pronounces, because telling symptoms is important.
"Yes milord." It lengthens its stride. The chair jogs doggedly after it.
Aydanci doesn't have anything useful to offer, so he decides to conserve energy and lean on Charp. And carefully keeps breathing. He will focus on that. That seems important. In, out, in, out. It's not really helping, but he doesn't know what else to do.
Kib catches up. He goes in, he finds his husband. He sits on the bed. "Any better?"
Kib takes his hand. "Sh, it's okay, not your fault. Unless it is and then I'll be very annoyed, you know. Deep breaths. You're still dizzy even lying down?"
That coaxes a smile out of him. "Mhm. Sort of, not all here, either." He waves a hand vaguely.
"Well, then instead of thinking just - breathe." Kib swallows. "Keep breathing, honey."
... He closes his eyes. But he continues breathing. Very quickly, but he is.
"It seems to be your heart," he says. "There aren't any reliable interventions. It may pass on its own."
"Or?" says Kib.
"...Or it may not. How old did you say your husband is?"
"Eighty-eight."
"...I'm sorry, sir. We can keep him comfortable."
"Your unfalling optimism," he says, breathe breathe, "fills me with," breathe breathe, "hope and glee."
"Honey," murmurs Kib.
"Honey," says Kib, "hypocritical as it is for me to say this: do not die on me."
Breathing! Breathing breathing breathing.