SATELLITE HEART [A BARLEY LIGHTFOOT x READER STORY]

chapter 16

"Do you think I'm going to die?" 

Your arms were around him, your fingers locked together right at the center of his chest. His heartbeat was against your wrist. He was leaning against your chest, his eyes on the TV that was currently muted.

"No," you said, because you couldn't picture a day in this world without him. 

"Ian thinks I am," he said. 

"Ian's just scared. We all are," you added, raising your eyebrows, "but I don't see you going anywhere anytime soon."

Barley sighed. "For some reason, that makes me feel better."

You kissed his hair and he turned his head, hazel eyes locking onto yours as you leaned in and pressed your lips to his softly. The house was quiet the moment was gentle and you wanted to tell Barley that you loved him right now, but you choked up. And as your lips broke away from his, you whispered to him with tears in your eyes. "You're not going anywhere."

Three days later, Barley's doctor called with a plan for treatments. They started four days later at a different hospital four hours away, and you packed up Barley's bags for the trip. You made sure he had his Quests of Yore book, journal, a set of pens and markers, a box of cards from his Quests of Yore game, headphones, and a nice supply of his favorite snacks. He sat on the edge of his bed, holding your duffel bag as you finished packing up his things.

"This is a less exciting quest," he said.

"Much less exciting," you agreed with a laugh as you closed his backpack. "I'll go put your bags in the van." 

"Have I told you that you're the best yet today, babe?" 

"Not yet," you said. 

"You're the best." 

You kissed him with a laugh and took his bag and yours out to the van. You and Barley were going to split the road trip in two; you would drive half the way and he would drive the other half. Ian was going to ride with Laurel. He was already sitting in the passenger seat of the car, his earbuds in and his head against the window. You paused by the window and knocked on it. He jumped before he rolled it down. 

"Hey, Barley wanted to stop for dinner before we got there," you said. "I'll call you when he tells me which exit to get off of." 

"Okay," he said. "I'll let Mom know." 

"Thanks," you said. 

Barley was at the doorway when you walked back to the front of the house. He reached for your hand when you hopped up on the porch step. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah," he said. "Let's do this." 

You drove for the first couple of hours with Laurel behind you, until Barley asked you to pull over and pick up personal pizzas for everyone. You and Barley ate in the van, sitting in the back with your legs crossed, watching the rain drizzle from the sky. 

"It's been raining a lot lately," you said. 

"Yeah." He nodded.

Barley wasn't his usual happy, loud self and you noticed but pretended you didn't. "Bar, do you want my last piece of pizza?" 

"Oh, no thanks, babe," he said. 

"Good," you said, taking a big bite of it. "Because I really didn't want you to have it anyway." He laughed, shoulders shaking, and you bumped your arm against his shoulder. He was normal Barley again --- from the outside, anyway. 

He didn't tell you how sick he really felt right now, and how little he wanted to eat his own food. You didn't know the battle going on inside of him; both with the physical sickness and the emotional stress dragging him way down. 

The hospital was cold and too bright. It felt foreign; the doctors were older and looked less happy. There was a heaviness inside of the hospital that you didn't understand until you realized this was a place for people as sick as Barley. He was holding onto your hand tightly as he checked himself in. They made him sign a bunch of paperwork and then walked him through the steps of the day and the information on his medicine that he couldn't understand but pretended to anyway. 

And then they took him to a room that was small and cold and you followed him in there. He sat in his bed while they hooked him up to machines with needles and wires. They attached the IV that was in his arm to a bag that was on a hook with wheels. The bag was full of goldish brown liquid; this was the medicine that would save his life, but would take away a lot of other things. 

They warned him how it would make him feel. Sick, tired, groggy, confused, forgetful, pained --- he lost track of all the different symptoms they warned him about. They didn't give him a chance to say no to it before the hooked the IV to the bag and he was glad, because he was almost sure he was going to try to run away.

Barley hated being scared. He remembered seeing his dad in this exact same position fifteen years ago. Hooked up to machines, buried under white blankets, pale and shaky. He was much thinner by then; so thin Barley could see his bones. It scared him. 

How long would Barley have before he was that thin? Three months? Did he even have three months left? Was Ian right? Was there no way of him surviving this? He couldn't remember the change in his father when he was told that his illness was terminal. If Barley was told the same thing... how would that change him? Would he die sooner rather than later?

But you were there holding his hand as the cold liquid rushed to his veins, and he remembered you saying you didn't see him going anywhere. You didn't lie to him. If you said it, then you truly believed it, and somehow he knew that your belief had power. He held on so tightly that your fingers hurt and you just smiled at him and let him squeeze your hand all he needed.

He wasn't going anywhere.