Chapter Text
The bruise on Conrad's hip was the size of a grapefruit, and he had no idea where it came from.
He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, boxer briefs slung low, examining the mottled purple and green bloom spreading across his skin. Belly was still asleep in their bedroom, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, and the early morning light coming through the window made the bruise look even worse than it probably was.
Conrad pressed his fingers against it experimentally and winced. The pain radiated deep, into the bone itself, a dull ache that had become so familiar over the past few months that he'd almost stopped noticing it. Almost.
He pulled his shirt on and tried to remember. Had he bumped into something at the construction site? He'd been working on the beach house renovations for weeks now, carrying lumber and hammering in the August heat. It would make sense. Except he couldn't recall any specific moment of impact, and the bruise was so large, so dark, that it seemed like it should have come from something memorable.
The bone pain was worse, though. That was the thing that had been keeping him up at night, making him shift restlessly beside Belly until she'd murmur in her sleep and reach for him. His legs ached constantly now, a deep throb that settled into his shins and thighs like he'd run a marathon every single day. Some mornings he woke up and could barely walk to the bathroom without his knees feeling like they might give out.
He was twenty-four years old. He shouldn't feel like this.
"Con?" Belly's voice drifted through the door, sleep-rough and soft. "You okay?"
Conrad quickly pulled his jeans on, hiding the bruise, and opened the door. She was sitting up in bed now, wearing one of his old Brown t-shirts, her eyes still half-closed. God, she was beautiful. Even after two years of living together, the sight of her in the morning still made something in his chest tighten.
"Yeah," he said, coming back to bed and kissing her forehead. "Just getting ready. I've got to head over to the house early - the contractor's coming at eight."
Belly frowned, reaching up to touch his face. "You look tired. Did you sleep?"
"Some." It was a lie. He'd maybe gotten three hours, the pain in his bones keeping him awake, along with a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep seemed to fix. He'd been tired for months now, the kind of tired that made his whole body feel heavy, like he was moving through water.
"You're working too hard," Belly said, concerned. She sat up further, the blanket pooling around her waist. "Maybe you should take a day off. We could go to the beach, just relax—"
"I'm fine, Belly." He kissed her again, this time on the lips, trying to reassure her. "Really. I just need coffee."
But as he stood up, a wave of dizziness hit him so hard he had to grab the doorframe. The room tilted, his vision darkening at the edges, and for a second he thought he might actually pass out.
"Conrad!" Belly was out of bed in an instant, her hands on his arms, steadying him. "Okay, that's it. Something's wrong."
"I just stood up too fast," he said, but even he could hear how weak his voice sounded. His heart was racing, pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape. "I'm okay."
"You're not okay." Belly's voice had taken on that firm quality, the one that meant she wasn't going to let this go. "You've been exhausted for weeks. You're covered in bruises—yes, I've noticed—and now you almost just fainted. You need to see a doctor."
"Belly—"
"Don't 'Belly' me, Conrad Fisher." She crossed her arms, and despite everything, he almost smiled. She'd grown into herself so much over the years, had become so strong, so sure of herself. The girl who used to follow him around Cousins had become a woman who could stare him down and make him listen. "You're going to the doctor. Today."
Conrad wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her that he was fine, that it was just stress and too much work and not enough sleep. But the truth was, he was scared. He'd been scared for weeks now, watching the bruises appear like dark flowers across his skin, feeling his body betray him in ways he couldn't explain or control.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, I'll make an appointment."
Belly's expression softened, and she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. He held her tight, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, letting himself take comfort in her presence.
"It's probably nothing," she murmured against his chest. "Probably just anemia or something. But we should check."
"Yeah," Conrad agreed, even though something in his gut told him it wasn't nothing. Something was very, very wrong.
The doctor's office was one of those generic medical buildings off Route 6, all beige walls and outdated magazines in the waiting room. Conrad sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair, filling out intake forms while Belly sat beside him, her leg pressed against his.
He'd called that morning and somehow gotten a same-day appointment, which probably should have made him feel better but instead just made him more anxious. The receptionist had asked about his symptoms over the phone, and when he'd listed them off—exhaustion, bruising, bone pain, dizziness—there had been a pause before she'd told him to come in immediately.
"Previous medical or family history?" Conrad read from the form. He almost wrote "none" but then stopped, his pen hovering over the paper.
His mom. Breast cancer. Dead at forty-eight.
He wrote it down, the words feeling like a betrayal somehow, like acknowledging it on this form made it more real. Belly's hand found his knee, squeezing gently. She knew. Of course she knew.
"Conrad Fisher?" A nurse appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand.
Conrad stood, and Belly started to stand with him, but he shook his head. "You can wait here. I'll be quick."
"Con—"
"I'm okay." He kissed her temple. "Just wait here."
But as he followed the nurse back through the sterile hallways, he realized he wanted her with him. He wanted her hand in his, wanted her steady presence beside him. He almost turned back, but then they were in the exam room and the nurse was taking his vitals, and it felt too late.
His blood pressure was fine. His temperature was normal. But when she pricked his finger for a quick blood test, the blood that welled up looked almost pale, not quite the right color. The nurse frowned at it, pressed the cotton ball to his finger a bit harder than necessary.
"The doctor will be right in," she said, and there was something in her tone that made Conrad's stomach drop.
He sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath him, and waited. The room smelled like antiseptic and something else, something clinical and cold. He stared at the anatomical posters on the wall—the circulatory system, the skeletal structure, the mysterious workings of the human body that were apparently failing him in ways he couldn't see.
When Dr. Page came in, she was younger than he expected, maybe in her late thirties, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She shook his hand firmly and sat down across from him, pulling up his chart on her computer.
"So, Conrad," she said, scanning the information. "Tell me what's been going on."
He went through it all again—the exhaustion that had been getting progressively worse for months, the bruises that appeared without cause, the bone pain that woke him up at night, the dizziness. As he talked, Dr. Page listened carefully, nodding, making notes.
"And how long has this been happening?" she asked.
"The tiredness started maybe six months ago? But I thought it was just work, you know. The bruising and the pain, that's been maybe three months."
"Have you had any fevers? Night sweats? Unexplained weight loss?"
Conrad thought about it. "Maybe? I've been sweating a lot at night. And I think I've lost some weight, but I wasn't really paying attention."
Dr. Page nodded slowly, her expression neutral but focused. "I'm going to do a physical exam, and then I want to run some blood tests. The symptoms you're describing could be a lot of things, but I want to rule out some possibilities."
The physical exam was thorough. She pressed on his abdomen, felt for swollen lymph nodes in his neck and armpits, examined the bruises on his arms and legs with careful attention. When she pressed on his sternum, he couldn't suppress the sharp intake of breath—it hurt, a deep ache that radiated through his chest.
"Tenderness here?" she asked.
"Yeah," Conrad admitted. "For a few weeks now."
Dr. Page sat back, her expression thoughtful. "I'm going to be honest with you, Conrad. Your symptoms are concerning. The combination of easy bruising, bone pain, and fatigue suggests that something might be going on with your blood or bone marrow. I'm ordering a complete blood count and some other tests. We should have preliminary results within a few hours."
Conrad's mouth went dry. "What do you think it is?"
"I don't want to speculate until we see the numbers," Dr. Page said gently. "But I want you to stay nearby. Once I get the results, I'll call you immediately. Do you have someone with you?"
"My girlfriend, Isabel. She's in the waiting room."
"Good. Bring her back with you." Dr. Page stood, and Conrad realized the appointment was over. "The lab is down the hall. They'll take your blood, and then you can wait. Try not to worry too much—we're just gathering information right now."
But Conrad could see it in her eyes. She was worried.
The blood draw took longer than expected because his veins kept collapsing. The phlebotomist had to stick him three times before she finally got a good sample, and by the end his arm ached and there was a fresh bruise blooming at the crook of his elbow.
Belly had joined him for the draw, holding his other hand, and when they finally finished, she looked almost as pale as he felt.
"That's normal, right?" she asked as they walked back to the waiting room. "For veins to do that?"
"I don't know," Conrad said honestly.
They sat in the waiting room for two hours. Belly tried to distract him, talking about her classes—she was getting her master's in literature at BU, teaching freshman composition on the side—and about the book she was reading, but Conrad couldn't focus. His mind kept circling back to Dr. Page's expression, to the way she'd pressed on his sternum and felt his lymph nodes with such careful attention.
His phone buzzed. Jeremiah.
how's the reno going? need help this weekend?
Conrad stared at the text, trying to figure out how to respond. He and Jeremiah had grown closer again over the past few years, had rebuilt their relationship after everything that had happened with their mom, with Belly. They talked regularly now, visited each other, worked on the beach house together every summer. He should tell him what was happening.
But he didn't know what was happening yet.
going good. might take you up on that
He sent the text and put his phone away.
"Con?" Belly was looking at him, her brown eyes worried. "What are you thinking?"
"That I want to go home," he admitted. "I want to go back to the apartment and pretend this isn't happening."
"Me too," Belly said softly. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "But we're doing the right thing. Whatever it is, we need to know."
At 3:47 PM, the nurse called his name again.
This time, Belly came with him, her hand tight in his. Dr. Page was waiting in the same exam room, and when Conrad saw her expression, his heart sank. She looked concerned, professional, but there was something else there too—compassion, maybe, or pity.
"Conrad, Isabel," she said, gesturing for them to sit. "Thank you for waiting."
"What is it?" Conrad asked. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "What did you find?"
Dr. Page pulled up some charts on her computer, numbers and graphs that meant nothing to Conrad. "Your blood work shows some significant abnormalities. Your white blood cell count is very elevated, your red blood cell count is low, and your platelets are critically low. That explains the bruising and the fatigue."
"What does that mean?" Belly asked, her voice tight.
"It means," Dr. Page said carefully, "that something is affecting Conrad's bone marrow—the place where blood cells are made. Given the severity of these numbers and your symptoms, I'm concerned about a hematologic malignancy."
The word hung in the air between them. Malignancy. Cancer.
"You think I have cancer," Conrad said flatly.
"I think it's a strong possibility," Dr. Page said. "But I need to refer you to a hematologist-oncologist for further testing. They'll likely want to do a bone marrow biopsy to confirm the diagnosis and determine exactly what type we're dealing with."
Beside him, Belly made a small sound, almost like a whimper. Conrad reached for her hand automatically, squeezing hard.
"What type?" he managed to ask. "What type of cancer?"
"Based on your age and presentation, I'm concerned about acute leukemia," Dr. Page said. "But it could also be a lymphoma, or something else entirely. The biopsy will tell us for certain." She leaned forward, her expression kind. "I know this is scary. But I want you to know that many blood cancers are very treatable, especially in young, otherwise healthy patients. This isn't a death sentence, Conrad. But you need to start treatment soon."
Conrad felt like he was underwater, like all the sound had been sucked out of the room. Cancer. The word his family didn't say, the thing that had killed his mother, that had destroyed his family. And now it was in him, in his blood, in his bones.
"How soon?" Belly asked, and Conrad realized he couldn't speak, couldn't form words. "How soon does he need to start treatment?"
"I've already called Dana-Farber. They have an opening tomorrow afternoon with Dr. Elizabeth Colton—she's one of the best hematologists in Boston. They'll do the biopsy and staging, and if it is acute leukemia, treatment will likely start within days."
Days. Not weeks, not months. Days.
"Okay," Belly said, and Conrad felt a rush of gratitude for her, for her ability to stay calm when he was falling apart. "Okay, we'll be there. What do we do until then?"
Dr. Pagel wrote something down and handed it to Belly. "Here's the information for the appointment. In the meantime, Conrad needs to be very careful. His platelet count is low enough that he's at risk for serious bleeding. No contact sports, no rough activity. If he has any signs of bleeding that won't stop—nosebleeds, blood in his urine or stool, heavy bruising—you need to go to the ER immediately. And if he develops a fever over 100.4, that's also an emergency."
She went through a list of other instructions, things to watch for, warning signs, but Conrad barely heard any of it. He was trapped in his own head, in the terrible realization that everything had just changed.
When they finally left the office, the sun was still shining, people were still going about their days, and Conrad felt like screaming. How was the world still turning when his had just stopped?
Belly drove them home in silence. Conrad stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of Boston pass by, and tried to process what had just happened. Three hours ago he'd been a healthy twenty-four-year-old with his whole life ahead of him. Now he was a cancer patient.
When they got back to their apartment in Somerville, a tiny one-bedroom they'd rented after Belly graduated, she parked but didn't get out of the car. They sat there in the gathering dusk, the streetlights flickering on one by one.
"Say something," Belly finally whispered. "Please, Con. Say something."
Conrad turned to look at her. There were tears streaming down her face, and the sight of them broke something in him. He reached for her, pulling her across the console and into his arms as best he could in the cramped space.
"I'm scared," he admitted, his voice cracking. "Belly, I'm so scared."
"Me too," she sobbed against his shoulder. "I'm so scared. But we're going to get through this. You're going to be okay. You have to be okay."
He held her tighter, breathing in the scent of her, trying to anchor himself to this moment, to her. "I don't know how to do this."
"We'll figure it out," Belly said fiercely, pulling back to look at him. Her eyes were red and swollen, but there was steel in them too, determination. "Together. We'll figure it out together."
Conrad kissed her, tasting salt and fear and love, and tried to believe her.