Patrick Stump/Fall Out Boy Imagines

[PATRICK] The Voice On The Sixth Floor

You throw the rest of your dinner that you didn't really touch into the trash and toss the plate into the sink, where it joins the other dishes you have yet to clean. The trash is overflowing and you finally decide it's time to take it out.

This is your first time living on your own - you graduated high school about seven years ago and you just recently graduated college three years ago. In high school, well, you lived with your family. In college you lived with your roommates. And after college, you lived with your boyfriend. But now you're on your own and, you're not going to lie, it's pretty lonely.

You live in an apartment complex in Chicago. It's not in the greatest part of the city, but it's not in a bad area either. You barely know anyone in the complex, except for your next door neighbor who told you the day you moved in that if there is anything you ever need, you know where to knock.

You pull the flimsy plastic bag out of the garbage bin and walk out of your apartment. As you walk down the hallway, you can't help but hear someone singing. The singing is quiet though, because it's coming from the floor above you - the sixth floor, also the last floor of the building. The voice and song are familiar - but you can't put your finger on who's singing what song.

You drop your bag of garbage and turn around, running down the hallway and up the stairs to the sixth floor, disregarding the tape blocking off the stairwell and ripping it down. No one lives on the six floor, at least, none that you know of.

The sixth floor is dark and deserted - unlike the rest of the complex. You can still hear the singing - it's louder now, but you still can't tell where it's coming from.

You cross your arms over your chest, this floor much colder than the floor you or anyone else in  the complex live on, and start your way down the ominous hallway. As you walk down the hallway, you open every apartment door (since no one  lived there, all the doors were unlocked) and peer into the apartments - seeing if anyone was in there.

Your search is unsuccessful thus far, that is until you come across the last apartment  of the hallway. The singing is the loudest it's been this entire time. You cautiously grasp the dusty doorknob, your heart pounding against  your chest, and pull the door open. A gust of wind blows at you, freezing you to the bone.

You open your eyes (which you had closed because you were frightened about what might be  behind the door) and see a man standing in the corner of the room. His hand is on his chest, glasses on the bridge of his nose, and a fedora on top of his head. His singing stops abruptly when he notices you. Tears immediately brim your eyes and you clasp your hand over your mouth.

It's Patrick. Your boyfriend that died two years ago.

It all comes back to you.

There was a fire that engulfed the entire sixth floor. The only reason you survived was because you weren't there, you were out with your friend that morning.  You'd left the apartment around seven - Patrick was still asleep and you assumed he wouldn't be awake until after you returned - and the fire  started at eight. He died in the fire, along with some of the other tenants who resided on Floor 6.

The fire is the reason you moved down to the fifth floor. All tenants who hadn't died in the fire were relocated to other floors of the complex.

The apartment you're in used to be your old one. The once blue walls are now black. The couch you and Patrick had many memories of binge watching your favorite shows and maybe even doing something else is now covered in ash, the fabric filled with holes from the fire. The platinum records hanging above the couch have been melted, the glass shattered and the actual records distorted. The floor is covered in leaves and debris that's flown in from the opened windows.

"Patrick," You whimper, the tears streaming down your cheeks.

He lowers his hand and starts approaching you.

"Y-You-" You stutter, but never finish.

He wraps his arms around you, enveloping you into a hug as you break down in tears.

"Y-You're dead," You mutter into his shoulder that feels real. "H-How are you-"

He shushes you and begins stroking your hair.

"You died. H-How did I hear you sing? H-How are you here?"

"You think too much sometimes," He whispers in your ear, stepping out of the embrace and swiping his icy cold finger across your cheek, wiping away the tears. "I  can't stand it when I make you cry."

"Patrick, just tell me what's going on," You croak, your vision becoming blurry, "Please."

"It wasn't your fault," He tells you calmly. And you know exactly what he means.

You feel like the fire was your fault. That you're the reason Patrick died so young, the you killed all those innocent people unfortunate to still be home when the fire took the entire floor and turned it to ash.

"And there was nothing you could've done to change the outcome," He adds, "I was meant to die  that day and you were meant to be with your friend."

"But it's not fair," You murmur, shaking your head, "You shouldn't have been the one to die. I should've been. You-"

"Life isn't fair," He  says simply, cutting you off. You glare at him and he chuckles. But his  laughs fade away, much as you anticipated him to do at any moment, and says softly, "I love you, (Y/N), and don't ever forget that."

"I won't."

He slips his frozen hand underneath your jawline and leans in, connecting his ice-cold lips with your warm ones. You close your eyes and hold him close. But he pulls away and vanishes, leaving you alone in the empty apartment, a breeze coming in through the window.

You swallow hard and turn around, leaving the apartment and closing the door behind you.

*****

You're in the parking  lot of the apartment complex, throwing your bag into the dumpster, when the main door opens. It's your neighbor, who also happens be taking their garbage out.

"(Y/N)!" They exclaim. You smile weakly as they join your side. "Hey!"

"Hi," You mutter in response, still shaken as to what happened minutes before.

"Hey, what's wrong?" They inquire, concerned.

"Nothing," You say, slipping your hands into the pockets of your pants and watching as they throw their bag into the dumpster.

"It doesn't seem like nothing," They say, closing the lid. The two of you start back up to your apartments.

"It's not my fault," You mutter.

"Huh?"

"It's not my fault," You repeat, meeting their gaze, "There was nothing I could've done to change the outcome."

"What are you talking about?"

You sigh, "Nothing..."

"O-Okay, (Y/N)," Your neighbor opens the door to their apartment, "Hey, um, if you ever need anything-"

"I know where to knock,"  You reassure them. They give you a smile before disappearing into their  apartment. You walk into yours and close the door behind you. You lean against it and close your, putting your fingers to your lips and  remembering the cold kiss he left you with.