Hell's Reign (Patrick Stump/Fall Out Boy Fanfiction)

Chapter 25 - I Never Wanted to Be a Singer

            Weeks passed without another incident. No one left the venue, and nothing got into it. Pete and Joe spent countless hours boarding up doors and windows, double checking them, and then checking them again. Andy and Tori kept the apartment as clean as they could, and the two of them took turns preparing meals and together, they kept track of food rations. Patrick, however, was at a loss for ways he could help. He'd tried boarding up a window once, but the tip of his hook kept getting stuck in the wood. It became so aggravating, that he tried to do it without the hook, but then, his left arm was virtually useless. He tried helping Tori cook once, and the irritation on her face when he accidentally punctured a hole in the side of a soup can was enough to make him slink back into the bedroom and reprimand himself for the rest of the evening. Another day, he tried to help Andy clean. He was about to tie up a garbage bag he had filled with empty cans, when of course, he unintentionally ripped a huge tear in the side of the bag, spilling dirty cans all over the carpet. He had looked up to see Andy shaking his head, gently removing what was left of the bag from Patrick's grasp.

Now three weeks after the accident, Patrick was once again sulking around the apartment. He was sprawled over the couch in the living room, his feet kicked up on the arm of it. Joe was sitting in the recliner across from him, his guitar perched on his lap. He was absently picking at the strings, creating a soft melody as Andy and Tori bustled about the kitchen, preparing dinner. Pete was in his room, the door closed, but Patrick could hear him picking at his bass, the same way Joe picked at his guitar.

It unnerved him, having to sit there and listen to them creating music, even if it was just a couple of mindless melodies. His fingers itched to hold a guitar again, but more so, to play the drums again. Sure, he could still sing, but that was never in his plans anyway. He never wanted to be the front man of any band, and he sure as hell never thought he would or even could be a singer. No, even the guitar was something he'd picked up recently, because Pete had suggested it. He was a drummer through and through, and now he may never touch a drum set again. It angered him, downright pissed him off, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He clenched his fist, the point of his hook digging into the upholstery of the couch. Joe had started playing a riff to song they had only just started working on before everything went to hell, and finally, Patrick couldn't take it anymore. He swung his legs down off the couch and stood up so abruptly that Joe froze for a moment. "Hey," he breathed, muting the frets with his left hand as Patrick glared at him. "You alright, man?"

"Fine," Patrick sighed, through gritted teeth. It wasn't Joe's fault, and he couldn't expect him to stop playing music just because he couldn't join in. He strode calmly away then, turning down the hallway towards the bedrooms. As he passed Pete's room however, the anger flared up again at the sound of a familiar bass line. He stopped just outside the door, listening as the bass muted, and then the rustle of paper that followed. He was writing; But Pete never wrote the music. At least, he never did it alone. He wrote the lyrics, composition was Patrick's territory, but he was writing without him. For a moment, Patrick had half a mind to beat down the door and scream at him, force him to understand how much it hurt. It felt like he was being abandoned, shot dead like a lame horse. He backed away from the door though, sneering at it as though Pete could somehow feel his anger from the other side of it.

Patrick stormed into the bedroom he shared with Tori instead, forcefully slamming the door behind him. He was sure everyone had heard it slam, but he didn't care. The bass line was still pounding in his head. He strut into the room and drove his foot roughly into the door of the connecting bathroom, sending it slamming back against the side of the bath tub inside. He went to run his hands through his hair then, one hand closing around it and giving a tug, the other bumping aimlessly against his skull, the cold metal scratching slightly as he dragged it over his head anyways. Still clenching his hair in his fist, he held his hook in front of him, glaring at the metal accusingly. It wasn't Joe's fault, he repeated in his head, but it was Pete's. Pete cut his hand off. Pete never thought to try sucking out the venom, the poison, whatever the hell it is that a zombie leaves when it bites you. Pete took away his ability to do pretty much anything.