Patrick Stump/Fall Out Boy Imagines

[PATRICK] Writing A Different Song - Part Two

Patrick walks down the crowded Los Angeles sidewalk, his head hung low and the hood of his sweatshirt covering his hair. He has a backpack strapped over his shoulder, a guitar case in his hand, and sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, hiding his tired eyes.

He bumps shoulders with a number of people, usually either muttering a sincere apology or stopping to ask if they're okay. His kindness contrasts with his appearance, throwing the passersby off, especially since they'd shouted "Hey, watch where you're going, asshole!" or "What the fuck's your problem?" at him.

Having reached his supposed destination, the singer looks up at the building that towers over him and sticks his free hand into his pocket, pulling out a flyer he acquired a few days ago and having trouble unfolding it since he's only using one hand. Once he gets it, he reads it over quickly and takes one more glance up at the building, checking that it's the correct place. Sure enough, it is. Patrick stuffs the piece of paper back into his pocket and walks up the steps, grasping the weathered doorknob and twisting it. He pushes the door in and enters.

He pulls his sunglasses off of his face as he ventures farther into the dark building, hanging them from the collar of his shirt. He tilts his head back and gawks at the staircase that spirals upward six stories. The singer takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, glancing over at the door he just walked through.

He doesn't have to do this.

He can walk right back out and just go back home. To his family, to his friends. To the comforts of his nice house, to the luxuries his career had provided him.

But those are all the reasons why he's doing this.

To get away from it all.

Patrick rolls his shoulder forward, adjusting the backpack that's been slowly slipping down his arm, and begins his journey up the stairs.

He steps onto the sixth floor, admittedly a little breathless, and turns his head left and right. For the second time that day, he shoves his hand into his pocket and extracts the glorified piece of paper, scanning the print for the apartment number.

"Apartment 27," The singer mutters under his breath, snickering, "27. How ironic." He shakes his head and once again folds up the piece of paper, traveling down the hallway and spotting the apartment with the number indicated on the flyer. He raises his hand in a fist and knocks three times, taking a step back and waiting patiently for an answer.

It doesn't take long before Patrick hears the sound of footsteps running across the floor, followed by the locks being undone. The door swings open and he puts a smile on his face.

"Hi," He greets, pulling out the flyer and showing it to the person standing in the doorway, "You haven't found a roommate yet, have you?"

"No." They cross their arms over their chest, the corner of their lips curling up into a smirk. "But I think I just might have. Come on in," The person suggests, stepping to the side and motioning me in.

He nods his head in understanding and enters the apartment, not knowing what to expect. He bites his lip as he surveys the small place. It's nothing like his house, in fact, the size of the living room appears to be even smaller than the size of his foyer. It sort of reminds him of the apartment he used to live in with Pete, Joe, and Andy. Except that there aren't any beds. At least, none in the room he's standing in.

"So what's your name?" The creator of the flyer inquires, closing the door and turning around to face him.

"Patrick," The singer answers, somewhat relieved they don't know who he is - it makes this situation a lot easier than it would've been if they did, "You?"

"(Y/N)," You reply, slipping your hands into your pockets, "I feel I should tell you that my last roommate was kind of a dick and that's why I kicked him out. Will I have the same problem with you?"

He chuckles nervously. "Hopefully not."

"Good." The two of you stand there for a little while before you blurt out, "Do you want me to show you your room?" Patrick nods his head in agreement and you disappear into the one hallway that comes off of the main living area, him following after you. Along the way, you point out the bathroom and the linen closet before stopping at the end of the short hallway, a door to your left and a door to your right. You motion to the one to your right and tell him, "That's my room." You switch hands, however this time, opening the door and pushing it in, "This one's yours."

Patrick takes a few steps forward and peers into the bedroom, seeing that - much like the rest of the apartment - it's nothing like his old bedroom. The walls are a dismal gray, blemish free. No holes from nails or screws, no stains from who-knows-what. They're just...gray. A sheet-less bed is pressed up against the wall and next to it, underneath a window, is a desk. Aside from that, there's nothing else to the room.

You place your hand on his shoulder, then proceed to rest your chin on top of it. "Pretty depressing, right?"

"No shit," He mutters, failing to hide his disappointment.

"Well lucky for you, I'm pretty close with the landlord and I could probably get you two a meeting. Are you cool with seducing guys?"

"What?" Patrick looks back at you with wide eyes, seeing you have a wide grin on your face.

"I'm just joking, Patrick. But seriously, you can do whatever you want to spruce this place up. I'm getting kind of sick looking at the gray walls anyways."

He stares at the room for a little more before the corner of his lip perks up and he replies, "You know what? I think I'll get used to it...eventually."

You giggle. "Whatever you want, Patrick. Welcome to Apartment 27." You pat him on the shoulder and disappear into your bedroom, closing the door behind you.

The smirk on the singer's face evolves into a full on grin, his cheeks even growing a faint shade of red. He steps into his room and mirrors your action, shutting the door behind him. He falls against it, awestruck.

"This is perfect," He murmurs, "Absolutely perfect."

To be continued...