Patrick Stump/Fall Out Boy Imagines

[PATRICK] This Always Wins

(H/N/F/Y) = His Nickname For You (Your Nickname)

You're sitting on the edge of your bed, Patrick in the arm chair not too far away. The sun had since fallen behind the horizon and the nightly silence lingered in the air. It didn't last for long, however, and was interrupted by the two of you blowing up at each other during one of your hushed late night conversations. The silence returned after fifteen, twenty solid minutes of the two of you shouting back and forth, leaving your throats hoarse, your eyes stinging, and your hearts pounding against your chest.

"I just don't get it, (Y/N)," Patrick murmurs, his head resting in the palm of his hand as he gazes off into nothing to avoid your gaze that's locked on your hands clasped together in your lap.

"Neither do I," You whisper back, your lip starting to quiver.

"But you have to," He argues calmly, still making sure not to lose the staring contest with the discarded pair of underwear in his field of vision, "If you didn't, you wouldn't keep bringing it up."

You look up at him and rise to your feet, another round of anger boiling up inside of you. "Well I'm sorry I even said anything!" You snap, Patrick's bluish green eyes finally breaking away from the floor and slowly making their way to yours, "You tell me you want me to open up to you, to let you in, but then when I do, you want nothing more than for me to shut up!"

"You're the one who doesn't want to talk!" He shouts, the silence - once again - being disturbed. He stands up and walks over to you. "You start to tell me things and then you stop because you think I don't want to listen! But I'm not the one who's not listening, (Y/N), you are! You don't listen to me!"

You shake your head. "Don't you get it? Your words don't mean shit to me!" You push him away from you, the tears you've been holding back flooding from your eyes. "It doesn't matter how many times you tell me I'm not a waste of life, that I'm more than I give myself credit for, and that some day my dreams will come true and I'll make it and be as big as you are. But guess what, Patrick? It hasn't happened yet and it never will. And you want to know why? Because of this." You point to your head, your hand shaking. "This always wins. A million people could tell me the same thing you tell me and it wouldn't matter, because this tells me different."

Your husband chuckles, as if all of this is some joke. "Then don't listen to it. Listen to me, listen to everyone else, just not..." He motions to your head. "...that."

You scoff. "You say it like it's that easy."

"Because it is!" Patrick throws his hands outward. "You just don't want to admit it's that easy. You don't want me to help you."

"Right! Because you can't help me!" You yell, pushing him aside and walking over to one of the large floor to ceiling windows. You place your forehead and left hand on the clean glass and frown. "I'm too far gone to be helped..."

"Oh my god," The singer mumbles, raking his fingers through his hair and laughing. You glance back over your shoulder at him, your throat tight and your vision blurry. "You're so unbelievable sometimes, you know that? Seriously. Like, you make it seem like you're alone and that you're meant to be miserable the rest of your life, but that's not true! I mean, what does this mean to you?" He rushes up to you and takes your hand from the window, holding it up for you to see. He points to the ring around your finger and smiles wearily. "Nothing?"

"Patrick..." You murmur, taking your hand out of his, "You know that's not true."

"Well that's what you tell me when you say you're alone." He drops his hand to his side, the smile on his face disappearing. "You act like you have no one there for you, that you have to deal with whatever you're dealing with alone. But you have me! You have your family, and your friends, and your-"

"Whatever I'm dealing with?" You repeat in offense, hung up on those words that slipped past his lips.

The facial expression changes on his face. "No, (Y/N), I didn't mean-" You brush past him and out of the room, racing downstairs. "(Y/N), come on!" He shouts, running after you. He finds you in the middle of the front hallway, on the ground with tears streaming down your cheeks as you struggle to bring air into your lungs. He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. "Get up and come back to bed, (H/N/F/Y), really."

"No, I don't want to," You mutter through the sobs wracking your body, "Just leave me alone."

He rolls his eyes, asking softly, "Do you want me to get yours meds? Or call your therapist?"

"No!" You scream, dropping your head to the floor.

"Then what do you want me to do?" He questions, growing tired and frustrated.

"I WANT YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE!" You shout, tearing the ring off of your finger and tossing it aside.

Patrick puts his hands up in surrender. "Fine. Whatever. I'm going back to bed, and you should too." He shakes his head and retreats back upstairs, the bedroom door slam echoing through the house and stabbing you like a knife.

*****

Your tired eyes flutter open and a groan slips past your lips as you sit up, surveying your surroundings, finding yourself in yours and Patrick's living room with light flooding into the room and giving you an instant headache. You bring your hand up to your head - the ring you threw away last night wrapped around your fourth finger again - to alleviate the pain, but the headache isn't just from the light. It's from last night's events that you recall vividly and you regret every word you said, every thing you did, like you do every day.

Just then, the sound of plates clinking against one another hits your ear and draws you into the kitchen, where you find Patrick setting two plates out on the island. He meets your gaze and a small grin appears on his face. "Good morning," He greets.

You fold your arms uneasily over your front and approach the counter in the center of the room, asking, "Why are you still here?"

"Because it's my house," He responds with a chuckle, turning away from you and going over to the counter where he has the ingredients out for pancakes.

"No, Patrick, why are you still here?" You repeat your question, taking on a different, more serious tone.

He understands what you're trying to get at and sighs. "I'm still here because no matter how much you try to distance yourself from me and everyone else, I'm always going to be here for you, and so is everyone else. And we're always going to tell you that you're more than you think you are, whether you want to listen to us or not."

As he starts to put the ingredients together in a bowl, you bite your lip and look down at the ring on your finger, the corner of your lips curling up every so slightly. You trail over to Patrick and pull him into a hug from behind, resting your head on his back in between his shoulder blades and closing your eyes.

The singer barely looks back over his shoulder and laughs. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to not listen to my head and remind myself how lucky I am," You murmur. Patrick smiles and returns to making breakfast for the two of you.