Patrick Stump/Fall Out Boy Imagines

[PETE/PATRICK] That Not-So-Cliche Imagine Where Both Of Them Like You 6

That night, no one gets any sleep. The next morning rolls in and a heavy tension lingers in the apartment. Pete's missing and Patrick's locked himself in his room, leaving the residence to you, Joe, and Andy. You and Andy are sitting at the dining table where it all began while Joe fixes the three of you a pot of coffee.

"I'm sure he'll come back, (Y/N)," Andy remarks, trying to make you feel better about everything's that happened. You slowly meet his gaze, your eyes stinging with exhaustion and the corners of your lips are curled downward into a frown.

"Yeah," Joe chimes in from behind the kitchen counter where he set out three mix-matched mugs, "Besides, he has nowhere else to go. He's got to come back."

"But what if he doesn't?" You think aloud, your knees pulled into your chest and your arms wrapped around them, "He told me he was leaving, guys. So I don't think he plans on ever coming back."

A silence falls over the three of you, neither of the band members knowing what to say. They can't refute your statement because they know their friend better than you do, and you're right. When Pete sets his mind on something, there's no changing it.

"What am I supposed to do?" You blurt out, breaking the silence. "I can't stay here."

"Of course you can, (Y/N). Why would you think that?" Andy inquires.

"Because this isn't my house," You reply, accepting one of the filled coffee mugs that Joe's brought over to the table and nodding your head in appreciation, taking a sip before continuing, "I don't pay rent. My name's not on the lease. I'm just a guest. And now that Pete's not here...I mean..."

Andy reached over the table and placed his hand on top of yours in a reassuring manner. "(Y/N), you're welcome to stay here as long as you want, okay? Pete or not. We love having you around."

You give him a small grin before slipping your hand out from underneath his and taking another sip of the steaming hot beverage.

Meanwhile, down the hallway in his bedroom, Patrick sits in his bed, staring at the phone he has in his hands and arguing with himself on whether or not he wants to call Pete. He feels horrible for what's happened and wants to clear the air between them, but he's afraid Pete won't pick up or - if he does - won't care to listen to what he has to say.

The singer finally takes the chance and dials his friend's number, bringing the phone up to his ear and listening to the familiar and annoying ring that precedes any phone call. The rings occur five times before they're cut off and replaced with a cold and bitter, "What the fuck do you want?"

"Pete, please, you have to let me explain myself," Patrick rattles off, knowing this isn't time to stall with any small talk.

"Explain to me what? That you lied to me, lied to all of us, so that you could swoop in and steal my girlfriend from me? There's nothing you need to explain to me, Patrick. I get it perfectly."

"But that's not it!" He cries, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress and standing up. "Dude, nothing even happened between the two of us!"

The bassist scoffs. "Yeah, right. You said the same thing with Ashlee. But then guess what happened? I walked in on the two of you fucking, not to mention that it was in my bed!"

Patrick heaves a defeated sigh and runs his hands through his messy hair. "Pete, how many times do I have to tell you I'm sorry?"

"No amount of 'I'm sorry's will ever make what you did right, nor will it make me forgive you," He replies, his voice low and laced with indignation.

The singer bites his lip and pleads, "Come on, man. We're best friends."

"I think you meant to say we were best friends," Pete sneers before hanging up. Patrick pulls the phone away from his ear, pressure weighing down on his chest as his friend's words ring in his ears. He tosses the phone to the side and sits down on the edge of the bed, putting his head in his hands and mentally beating himself up for what he's caused.

*****

A couple of weeks go by where no one hears anything from the band's bassist. You've tried calling him, Andy's tried calling him, Joe's tried calling him, but he refuses to answer anyone's calls. You became so desperate at one point that you suggested putting out a missing person's report, but the drummer and guitarist advised you not to, telling you that he's a grown adult and he can live on his own, also that if you were to go through the report, you'd probably only succeed in pushing him farther away. So, with much hesitation, you've been holding back, waiting patiently for the day Pete returns on his own.

One day, you're downstairs doing everyone's laundry when a knock on the door behind you hits your ear, just as you're about to pour the detergent. You glance back over your shoulder to see Patrick standing in the opened doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets and a shy, nervous expression spread across his face. You swallow the lump in your throat and return your attention to measuring the right amount of blue liquid, muttering, "Hey, Patrick."

"Can we talk, (Y/N)?" He asks.

"Sure," You reply, setting down the bottle and pouring the detergent into its slot in the pull-out drawer for the washer, "What do you want to talk about?"

"Oh you know, about Pete...about you and me..." You hear his footsteps as he enters the room and joins your side, closing the drawer for you and bringing your eyes to his. "Look, what I said that night..." His voice trailed off as the words got caught in his throat. He shakes his head and pushes himself to get out what he wants to say. "...I didn't mean it." He knows the words coming out of his mouth aren't true, but you don't know that. He just wants things to go back to the way they were; he wants his best friend back. And if making you not like him will do that, then so be it. "Pete just told me that I needed to act like I liked you because he didn't want things being awkward between us all, you know, seeing as we all lived together. That's what we got into a fight about. He really likes you and he didn't want you leaving him because of me. But...like I said before, there's nothing you can do to change the way I feel. And, (Y/N), I don't like you."

Your eyebrows furrow together in confusion. "But you said-"

"I know what I said," He interrupts you, "I was lying. I never liked you and I still don't. And quite frankly, I don't who I was trying to kid. You're really annoying. I can't stand all of your cleaning. You don't even clean things right. And your breakfast? I've never had worst pancakes in my entire life, I swear."

You can't help the anger boiling up inside of you. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you suck," He retorts, nodding his head, "And honestly, I wish you and Pete would've move out because I can't stand having you around. Words can't describe how much you piss me off."

You scoff and respond childishly, "Well...I don't like you either! You're a slob and I bet you can't cook to save your goddamn pathetic life. So you know what?" You throw your middle finger in his face and whisper, "Fuck you." And with that, you brush past him - colliding your shoulder into his - and storm out of the room.