Patrick Stump/Fall Out Boy Imagines

[PATRICK] Favorite Record - Part One

You pull your car into the parking lot of your favorite record store and groan - there's practically no parking spaces available. Today is "Record Store Day" and the record store is having a huge blowout on records. The store goes all out on "Record Store Day", bringing in food trucks and having live  performances booked all day so the music never stops.

You like coming on days like this because you like finding some really cool vinyls for dirt cheap prices. The reason you don't like coming days like this? Because it seems like everyone else likes to come and find really cool vinyls for dirt cheap prices as well.

You park your car in the grass somewhere not too far from the record store and make your way back. You walk in and there is a mile long line of people waiting to check out. You brush past all of them and into the store.

The store is packed and there's some band named Arma Angelus playing in the back. People are  crowded around the stage and there's no chance of you even getting  close. But that's okay, you aren't really there for the live music (though you don't mind it at all, it was a nice addition).

You scan through the  aisles and aisles of CDs, since the area where the vinyls were are  flooded with people who don't normally come there on a daily/weekly basis like you do. You pick out a couple $5 CDs to add to your collection, but those aren't what you came there for. You came there for the vinyls.

About an hour later, the record store's died down a bit, the band stopped playing and is now just hanging out, talking to who know to be the manager of the record store.

You go over to where there are tables lined up with crates labeled $1 Records. You start searching through them and you find a few vinyls you decide  to buy. A few being ones you actually have heard before and the others being ones you're buying just because they seem cool (plus they're a dollar, what have you got to lose). You become really excited, however, then you find Michael Jackson's Thriller on vinyl. You pull it out and smile widely. He's one of your all-time favorites.

"That's my favorite album of his," Someone comments.

You look up to see a man wearing thick-rimmed black glasses and a fedora on top of his head. He  has a friendly smile on his face, and in his arms are at least fifteen different vinyls you assume he plans on buying.

"Mine too." A worried  look crosses your face, thinking that he mentioned it was his favorite because he wants to take it from you. "You don't want it, do you?"

"Oh no, I already have  one at home," He reassures you. You sigh in relief. He smirks and extends his hand out, "I'm Patrick, by the way."

"(Y/N)," You respond, placing your hand in his and shaking it.

"Do you come here often?"

"Does every day after work and whenever I can on the weekends count as often?" You giggle and he laughs.

"How come I never see you around?" He inquires as he places the vinyls he had in his arms into one of the crates.

"I don't know."

"I mean, I work here," He tells you, "And I'm here every day, but I don't think I've ever seen you before."

"Well I could ask you the same question," You blush.

Patrick chuckles, "You seem like a really cool girl, (Y/N). Maybe you and I could hang out sometime. I mean..." He motions to the Michael Jackson vinyl still in your hands, "...you seem to have an incredible taste in music. Maybe one day you could come over to my place and we could listen to music together. Or if you want, I could come over to your place."

Your cheeks grow an even deeper shade of red, "That sounds really cool."

"Awesome. Here, let me check you out. That is if you've got anything you want, right?"

You look down at the CDs and vinyls in your arms and nod your head yes.

He guides you to the  front desk where a couple employees wearing the record store's t-shirts are finalizing the few customers' purchases. Patrick punches some keys  into the cash register before slipping your CDs and vinyls into a large red plastic bag and handing it to you.

"How much will it be?" You ask him, going for your wallet in your purse you had strapped across your chest.

"Oh, nothing, don't worry about it," He smiles kindly. You feel even more guilty. "It's on me."

"You sure?" You ask, "I mean, I have the money, it's not like I can't pay for it."

"(Y/N), it's on me." He repeats.

"But-"

"You're worrying about it!" He interrupts you.

You heave a sigh and snatch the bag out of his hand.

"Well it was nice  meeting you, (Y/N)," He says, walking around the counter with another  stack of vinyls in his arms, "But I've got to get back to work. Will I see you around?"

"Yeah. Probably."

"Great. See you around, then."

"See you around," You repeat, watching him walk away.

*****

It's later that day. You're home and you're really excited to listen to your Michael Jackson vinyl on your record player (which your grandfather gave you for your birthday a couple of years ago - knowing how much you love listening to  music, especially older music on vinyl). You pull out the album and a piece of paper - a sticky note, to be specific - falls to the floor. You bend down and pick up the sticky note, seeing that there's writing on it. Seven digits are scribbled on the top and underneath the number, a  note.

Call me when you're going to listen to this. Maybe we can listen to it together :)

-Patrick

P.S. Did I tell you this is my favorite album of his?

You shake your head and walk over to the phone in your kitchen. You pick it up and dial the number he gave you. You pin the phone between your shoulder and your ear and lean against the wall, waiting for him to pick up. It rings a couple times before you hear Patrick's voice.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Patrick, it's me, (Y/N)," You smile, even though he can't see you, "I was wondering if you maybe want to come over. I'm going to listen to Thriller, and I heard it was your favorite album."

He gasps, "It is. Who told you?"

You giggle, "Are you going to come over or not?"

He chuckles, "Yeah. I'll be right over. See you soon."

"See you soon," You hang the phone up on the receiver and bite your lip, wondering how this night is going to turn out.

To Be Continued...