I'm Not Broken Hearted (Patrick Stump / Fall Out Boy Fanfic)

Chapter 11 -Allie

            Patrick looked up at me, a broken smile gracing his lips. I couldn't help but stare back from where I stood on the porch. His hair, oddly bright against the darkening night sky, was perfectly coifed, and he wore a silver suit jacket over his plain, black t-shirt. He looked amazing, but horrifying at the same time. His hands were buried in his pockets, and he rocked nervously back and forth on his heels. I swallowed hard, finally breaking my stare to look down at my feet. I made a mental note to kick Pete's ass the next time he was in Chicago.

Patrick cleared his throat, making me look back up at him as he took a step towards me. Silently, he held out his hand – an offer to help me down the four steps leading up to the porch. I hesitated, but eventually took it, sliding my hand into his. His warm hand tightened around mine as I stepped down to his height, our eyes connecting again as I stood directly in front of him, less than an inch away, for the first time in eleven years. He smiled again, a little more confidently this time. "Hi, Allie."

I looked up at him, suddenly aware that my hand was still trapped in his. "Hi," I breathed, my voice breaking.

Patrick let go of my hand, but held out his arm. "Walk with me?" Once again, I simply stared at him. His elbow was bent towards me, and he was waiting for me, but I stared at his face. I couldn't make out much in the waning light, but those damned eyes of his still had the same effect on me that they did all those years ago. Patrick smiled a little wider now, showing his teeth this time. "Al," he muttered, "It's okay. It's just me."

            Just you, I thought, Just the man I left. Just the man whose heart I broke. Just the man who couldn't bear to look at me, twenty-four hours ago. Taking a deep breath, I finally slid my hand around his arm. I realized then how warm he was, despite the snow blowing in the air around us. He placed his free hand on top of mine, and I noticed that he was wearing the same, fingerless gloves that he wore during his performance last night.

I fell into step beside him as he guided us down the street. Neither of us said a word for a while, but I could feel the tension in the air around us, as if all of the unsaid words in our minds were swarming around our heads, just begging to be spoken aloud. Finally, Patrick stopped beside the Chicago river, letting go of my hand to lean on the railing and look out over the river. I stood stock still beside him, afraid to be the first to speak, but I didn't have to.

Patrick ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "I miss being here," he finally said, breaking the silence in the kindest way possible, without mentioning the reason we were both standing in the cold, in the middle of December, about to pour our hearts out to each other. "Do you remember when we were younger, and all we dreamed about was leaving?" Patrick glanced at me, his eyes shining with the light from the street lamp over our heads. "We both left, Al. We got out. Yet, here we are." He stood up straighter, then, turning to face me. "So, what's your reason?"

"What?" I asked, my warm breath clouding in the air between us. Patrick smirked.

"Chicago. Why'd you come back?"

I paused. What was his point? "It's just...it's home," I stuttered, looking at the river, rather than at him. He smiled, as if he agreed with me, but he didn't say anything else. When the silence got to be overwhelming again, I finally looked at him, square in the eyes. "What about you?"

Patrick shrugged. "Same reason, I suppose. I always end up back here." He glanced out over the water again, before looking back to me and looking me up and down this time. "Allie." I had been looking at my shoes again, but I returned his gaze, almost bravely. "How have you been?"