Scared (Patrick Stump Imagine Short Story)

Part 8

Patrick sent you home that night, telling you he didn't want you or Gabby to be there when they started the chemotherapy. Of course you objected, counteracting by saying this isn't a time for him to be alone, but he insisted you not be there. Plus your daughter was on the verge of passing out from exhaustion at any moment. So you eventually comply, though you're not happy about it.

Just before you leave, he quickly asks you to not say anything to the guys about it.

"What do you mean 'don't tell the guys'?" You inquire, spinning around in the doorway of his hospital room. In your arms is Gabby who's drifting in and out of consciousness.

"I don't want them worrying about me more than they already are, (Y/N)," He replies, "Please, don't tell them I'm here. If they ask, just...just say I've been in bed. I'm not feeling good but I'm not feeling bad."

"Patrick-"

"(Y/N), I'm doing it your way. So let me have a little say in how I want to deal with it all," He pleads with you.

You stand there in the threshold, baffled as to why he wants to keep this a secret. You understand if he wanted to keep it from the fans - because if word gets out that the lead singer of Fall Out Boy has throat cancer, there's no doubt that he would be flooded with tweets and letters and maybe even a few visits to his house - but from his friends?

"Please, (Y/N), don't tell them," He begs.

You sigh before saying you won't. He thanks you and you nod your head. You leave the hospital and drive back to your house. The knot in your stomach gets worse the farther and farther you drive away from the hospital. You feel like you're going to throw up, but you keep it down.

You arrive home and put your daughter who had fallen asleep in the backseat in bed. The minute you close her bedroom door behind you, the feeling in your stomach gets the worse it's been all night and you run into the bathroom, falling to your knees and putting your head into the toilet bowl, emptying the contents of your stomach.

You sit back on your heels once you feel a little better and wipe your mouth with the back of your wrist. You sit there for a little before breaking down and sobbing into your hands.

You don't want Patrick to die. He can't die. Not now, not ever. You two have a life together, a life you're not ready to give up.

*****

It's the next morning, around seven o'clock, and you're in the kitchen, sitting at the round table in the little nook you have that looks out at your relatively large and nice-looking backyard. Rain falls from the sky in buckets, perfectly reflecting your mood.

You've been on your laptop since five in the morning (since you didn't do very much sleeping, worrying about Patrick and how the chemotherapy went), doing some research on your own about throat cancer, what the different stages meant, what treatment options there are, the side effects of the chemotherapy, everything. And although you really don't want to think about it, you've also looked up some options about what to do if he were to...pass. But you don't spend very long on that because it only brings you to tears.

You can't imagine a world without Patrick. He's your everything, the only reason you're still alive. And if he was to not be there one day...you don't even know what you would do.

You slam your laptop screen down and sit back in your chair, covering your face with your hands.

Just then, there is a knock on your door. You drag your hands down your face before dropping them in your lap. You pull yourself up and trudge over to the front door. You unlock the bottom and top lock and pull the door open. Standing on the patio in the pouring rain is Pete. He shoots you a signature smile. "Hey, (Y/N)."