When It All Goes To Hell (Patrick Stump Imagine Story)

Nothing You Need To Worry About

You are sitting at the dinner table, alone. Your head is resting in the palm of your one hand and in the other hand is your fork, which you are using to poke your dinner that's getting colder by the minute with. You don't care though. All you care about is that Patrick isn't with you. In his note to you this morning, he said he would be out all day. But it's nearly eight in the evening and he still isn't back.

Just as you stand to throw away the remnants of your barely-touched dinner, the front door clicks open behind you. You look over your shoulder and see Patrick walking in. He closes the door behind him and begins to take off his scarf.

"Well look who decided to show up," You coldly greet him. He looks back at you but says nothing, hanging up the garment and continuing to take off his coat. "Where were you, Patrick?"

"I told you I was going to be out," He replies softly, hanging his coat up and brushing past you, going into the kitchen. He walks right up to the stove and grabs the plate you left out for him. "Ooh, my favorite," He comments as starts to fill his plate.

"I didn't hear from you all day," You remark, spinning around so you're facing him. You cross your arms and lean against the threshold between the kitchen and the foyer.

"I was busy."

"Doing what?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, (Y/N)," He takes his plate and walks over to the table you were sitting at prior to his arrival. He sits down and looks left and right. He glances over at you and asks, "Hey, can you get me a fork?"

"Your legs aren't broken, are they?" You snap, staying in your place.

He rolls his eyes and gets up, retrieving the utensil for himself. He slams the drawer shut and stomps back over to the table, plopping down in his chair. He shoots a glare in your direction before digging in.

"But I do worry," You reply to his previous comment. He looks up at you. "Patrick, you missed our session, you've been gone all day...I just-"

"I apologized for it in the note," He mumbles, putting more food into his mouth.

"But-"

"By the way, how was the breakfast?" He changes the subject, his mouth ful. Your eyes narrow.

"It was fine," You answer through your clenched teeth, "But that's-"

"I knew you'd like it. I can't remember the last time-"

"PATRICK!" You explode, upset that he keeps interrupting you and not letting you finish a single sentence. He freezes in shock. You peel yourself away from the doorway and make your way over to the table, sitting down adjacent to him. "Stop trying to change the goddamn subject!"

"What? I just wanted to know if my girlfriend liked the breakfast I made her!" He tries to defend himself. You groan and cover your face. "(Y/N), I don't know what you want from me!"

"I want you to talk to me!" You remove your hands from your face and drop them into your lap, "And I don't mean this bullshit small talk you're doing. I mean the real stuff. Like what you're doing, where you're going...shit like that."

"Why? It's nothing to worry-"

"You keep telling me that, Patrick," It's your turn to cut him off, "But all it does is make me worry more!" He rolls his eyes and continues to eat his dinner.

The two of you sit there in silence filled with tension. Patrick soon sets his fork down and gets up from the table, throwing the rest of his dinner into the trash and setting the plate in the sink. He kisses you quickly on the head, "Thanks for the dinner, babe."

"No problem," You murmur, not looking up at him. You give up your argument, not wanting to fight with him anymore.

"I'll be upstairs working on a song. You know what to do. Or should I say not to do." The corner of his lip curls up. You nod your head. He kisses you once more before escaping upstairs. You heave a sigh.

He's been doing this a lot, recently - saying that he's going to work on a song and locking himself in his and your bedroom until the song is done. A lot of the times he'd tell you that he wants to be alone and not to bother him unless it was an emergency. This worries you probably even more than the suspicions you have about what he did today while he was out.

Crazy thing is that he doesn't even work on a song. He tries, but all he does is sit there, staring
at the blank piece of paper and hoping something comes to him. And when he does write something, he usually ends up disliking what he's written and crumples the paper up into a ball, throwing it in the overflowing trash bin across the room and mumbling to himself, "It's not good enough."

Nothing's good enough for him anymore. Sadly you're just waiting for him to tell you you weren't good enough anymore. At least then you'll have a good reason to go.

You get up out of your chair and walk over to the fridge, taking out a bottle of vodka, twisting the cap off, and putting the bottle right up to your lips - drinking the strong alcoholic beverage right from the bottle in an attempt to get your mind off of this issue.