A bad day began when Barry woke up alone in bed. It happened sometimes, when Iris would get up early to work on some project or another.
He would wake up shaking, lungs freezing from constantly gasping air, covered in a cold sweat and shaking uncontrollably. He suspected it got worse and worse the longer he was alone.
Relative time helped him pass by the worst of the shaking: he would pace and pace in circles around the room, tugging at his hair, and trying to shake off the last vestiges of dreams of red that burned his eyes and lungs and pain that laced through his bones and exploded with every step…
Relative time helped subside the worst of the shaking. It made the cold and the numbness worse.
By the time he exited his room, he had no sensation in his fingers, and his feet felt like dead weights attached to his legs.
If Iris was close: in the kitchen, or writing at the dining room table, then he could steal a kiss and she would drive the cold and the numbness away, although it took longer and longer each time.
Today, Iris was gone, possibly off on a long commute, or just taking some alone time to rest. Either way, Barry felt like the walking dead.
She must have known that he didn't have work today, and decided to leave him alone to rest. Right.
Barry cupped his hands to his mouth, trying to warm them with his breath, and pulled his sweater tighter around him. Even though it was spring, it felt like he was living in his own personal winter.
Flashes of blurring red danced before his eyes, and he stumbled, barely catching himself on the counter as everything melted away, the brightly lit kitchen fading into a dark chamber, yellow lights melting into a burning vermilion, and his lungs burning with phantom exertion.
His hearing was the last to go, the humming of the radiator usurped by the endless repetition of echoing footsteps, each footfall driving another burning spike into his chest.
Barry shook and struggled, but couldn't shake the vision, heart rate skyrocketing as he tried to free himself from the nightmare. This was fake. This wasn't happening.
But somewhere, in the not-so-logical part of him, there was a conviction that it would. That this was happening, that he was dying, that there was nothing he could do and that everything was only a matter of time.
A single tear escaped the burning heat that tried to dry his eyes, and he could barely breathe for the pain…
Barry gasped, the fluorescent lights of the kitchen burning his eyes. He collapsed, kneeling over, before reaching up to pull himself up by the counter. In horror, he watched as his numb, shaking and semi-transparent fingers passed through the ledge, coming to be pulled against his chest.
Barry hunched over himself, hands clenched against his chest, eyes stinging as the feeling from the vision refused to fade. Barry didn't like prophecies. Didn't like not being in control. Didn't like the certainty that the golden future he thought he was building with Iris seemed doomed to fall away like a sandcastle on a beach.
The door creaked, and Iris's footsteps made their way toward him. Barry scrambled to his feet, hoping against hope she didn't try to touch him. He didn't know what he would do if she passed through him too.
"Honey?" Iris looked beautiful, Barry thought desperately, hair curled to perfection, light reflecting off the strands. She looked so worried.
"I was just stepping out to get some writing done… did you fall?"
Barry nodded silently, as Iris took him by the shoulders and kissed his cheek.
"Sweetie, if there's anything wrong you can tell me…"
Barry looked down at her, and tried to imagine telling her that he was fading away. That he was dying, that he would die and he couldn't explain it but he felt sure that their future could be measured in months, if they were being optimistic.
Barry always wanted to be optimistic.
He wanted people to be happy.
He tried to imagine Iris's face, tried to imagine what they would do, and came up short.
Hal's ring had never found anything wrong with him. The equipment in the cave had never found anything wrong with him. He had never believed in curses or fate or destiny. And yet, for the first time in his life, he was consumed with the absolute unwavering knowledge that he was going to die. That he was on a one track course to his future and nothing and no one could change it.
Barry tried to quell the shaking in his hands, but they shook like a dying man's as he reached up to press against Iris's cheek. Her eyes seemed big and brown and with every inch of himself that desperately wanted to make her happy Barry couldn't bear to give her a death sentence he himself didn't understand.
Instead he roughly pulled her into a kiss, the consuming desire to keep her safe and happy and the overpowering relief that he was solid and real for this moment clashing together like tidal waves in his chest.
He pulled away, eyes fixed on the ground. "I'm just not feeling well. I'll be alright."
Iris wasn't stupid. But there was no way even she could know what was going on.