Scared (Patrick Stump Imagine Short Story)

Part 6

It wasn't easy for you to pretend he didn't have cancer and that he wasn't dying. Each day that passed by, he just seemed to be getting worse and worse and when you addressed the issue he would always change the subject. You were getting sick tired of his denial, mainly because it was constantly on your mind whereas he wasn't thinking about it at all. But you told him you'd try his way and you like to keep your promises. Especially to Patrick. But it was getting hard.

First off, his coughs that you never really noticed before had become more frequent.

"Oh, I'm fine," He'd reply when you asked him if he was alright, playing it off as if he had something caught in his throat. Most of the time it went something like: "I've just got something-" And in the middle of his explanation, he'd burst into another coughing fit, and there was nothing you could do but stare and hope that he stopped this nonsense and would go get the treatment he so desperately needed but didn't want, "-something stuck in my throat."

The cancer was starting to affect his voice too, especially his singing. He was even sent home from the studio one day because he sounded like "someone who's smoked their entire life" (according to Joe) or a "dying cat" (according to Pete). The band couldn't get a solid recording - not that the guys expected one, they didn't even expect him to come - but Patrick showed up, insisting that he could do it.

"I don't understand," He confided in you at home that day, "I don't think I sounded that bad." Even his talking voice was starting to get hoarse and scratchy, almost to the point where you didn't want him to talk in fears it would only make things worse than they already were.

And then one day...it just happened. He went mute. Didn't speak a single word the whole day. He just lied in bed, looking like he'd rather be dead than living.

That's where he spends most of his time now, in bed, while you bring him food to eat and hot tea in an attempt to make his throat feel better.

He was slowly losing his appetite as well. The food you brought him, he wouldn't even touch. You'd return to the room a couple of hours later and find Patrick still in bed, and the food on the nightstand just the way you left it hours ago.

A couple of weeks had passed by and Patrick has become completely bedridden almost. The only time he gets up is to go to the bathroom.

"Patrick, come on, you need to eat," You tell him as you sit down on the edge of the bed, noticing the untouched grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup you made for him. You pick up the bowl of soup, ready to feed him. He shakes his head no. "You haven't eaten in two days. You need to eat." You push the spoon towards his mouth and he pushes it back, leaving a brownish-red stain on the white bed sheet.

"I don't want to," He croaks, coughing a bit. "I'm not hungry."

"I don't care if you're hungry or not. You need to eat, or you're going to starve yourself to death and I'm not going to let you do that. So eat! Please!" You once again shove the spoon at him, and once again he pushes it away.

"I'm just not hungry, (Y/N)! If I'm not hungry, I'm not going to-" He doesn't even finish his sentence because he bursts into another coughing fit.

"You know what, Patrick? I'm done pretending," You throw the spoon down in the now-cold liquid and slam the bowl back on the nightstand, rising to your feet and turning around to face him. "You're getting help."

"I don't want-"

"I don't care whether you want it or not, Patrick, just look at yourself! Listen to yourself! You sound and look like shit and I really can't stand seeing you like this anymore..." You shake your hands in the air out of frustration, "You need to get help! You need to get treatment!"

He coughs and turns on his side away from you, muttering, "No."

"I'm not giving you a choice, Patrick. I'm done acting like you don't have cancer. Because you do and it's literally eating you alive and I don't know how you've just been ignoring something like this!" You pick up the tray of untouched food and sigh, regretting snapping at him. You continue in a softer tone, tears threatening to escape your eyes, "I'm calling the doctor tonight and we're going to see him. Whether it's tonight or tomorrow or whenever we can get you in, you're seeing him and you're getting that damn treatment. Period."

He groans, "Whhhhhhhhy?"

"Because I love you and I'm not just going to stand by your side and wait for you to die when I know there's something out there that can help you." He doesn't respond to you. You roll your eyes and leave the room.

You set the tray down on the countertop of island in the kitchen and sit down on a stool, putting your head in your hands.

You hear little footsteps patter into the room. You lift your head up from your hands to see Gabby climbing up onto the stool next to yours.

"Hey, Baby Girl," You greet, smiling wearily.

"Hi, Mommy."

"Do you want to help me eat this sandwich?" You question, picking up one half of the grilled cheese you'd originally made for Patrick. "I don't want it to go to waste."

"Okay," She takes the sandwich and starts eating it. You pick up the other half for yourself.

You and your daughter sit there in quiet for a little while before she asks, with a mouth full of chewed-up sandwich, "Hey Mommy?"

"Yeah, Gabby?"

"Is Daddy still sick?"

"Yeah."

"When will he get better?"

"I couldn't tell you." You set down the half-eaten sandwich and pick up the bowl, swirling the spoon around in the cold soup for a little before putting it up to your lips and sipping it.

A blanket of silence falls over you and your daughter again.

"I tried getting some treemints outside for him, but I don't think our tree is a treemint tree," Your daughter goes on to say, causing you to smirk. You absolutely adore her innocence.

You set the bowl of soup down and stand up, walking over to the phone on the wall to call the doctor.

"Mommy?"

You glance over your shoulder at your daughter, the ringback tone emanating from the speaker of the telephone.

"Is Daddy going to die?"

The ringing on the phone stops and there's a click, indicating the other line has picked up.

"Hello?"

"Um, yes, hi. This is (Y/N) Stump," You reply, turning away from your daughter and never giving her your answer, "I-I'm calling for Patrick Stump, my husband. Can I speak to his doctor?"