Just Off the Key of Reason

Introduction

November, 2006 – Paris, France

Pete stared up at the painting on his hotel room wall, imaging how good it would look in his home. It was a simple piece; a small cottage sat in the middle of a sun-bleached yellow field, hills rolling in the distance. He felt like if he stared at it for long enough that he could permanently become as happy as it made him feel, that he could get lost in those swirls of paint. The artist's name wasn't even on there for him to try and look it up later.

"I just really like it." He explained, turning to the singer lying on the bed.

"Whatever, Pete. I can't exactly stop you if you take it, I just don't think you should." He repeated for the millionth time, wanting this conversation to be over. They had shared this hotel room for two nights and he hadn't shut up about the damn painting on the wall. They were nearing the end of their international tour for their second album and Patrick wanted nothing more than to be in his own company, in his own house, away from stupid pictures of stupid fields.

"It just-"

"Speaks to you, I know." He groaned. There was a moment of silence in the room and Patrick prayed that maybe he'd finally let it go.

"I'm gonna take it." He concluded, turning back to the frame on the wall.

"Fine. Just stop talking about it."

By the time Pete left the hotel the next morning, he had three pieces of art stuffed poorly into his duffel bag. It looked like a squirrel who had no semblance of self-control about how much he should shove in his mouth and was overflowing with things he couldn't possibly need. Once he had decided he wanted the one painting, he thought he might as well go all in and take all the paintings that piqued his interest. He had to shuffle behind his unimpressed band to get them to their cab without creating too much alarm from the front desk. They had reluctantly agreed, just glad to see him happy about something, even if it was illegal. He shoved the paintings into the back seat of the car in between his legs, warning everyone not to damage his new "masterpieces." As he stared at the house in the middle of those seas of yellow jutting out from his bag in the back seat of the taxi, he grinned to himself. "This is gonna look so good in my apartment."

January, 2007 – Chicago, Illinois

"Peter, you can't just take things." Their manager sighed as he ran a hand over his face in frustration.

"But I wanted it!" He argued. Joe rolled his eyes. They had all heard the spiel on the car ride over here; once Pete knew he was in trouble he ran through his list of excuses to try and work out what might get him out of it. He had already exhausted all the half reasonable options: 'I knew the guy who painted it' and 'the manager said I could have it.' He was now down to actual honesty.

"I know you did, but we now need to pay them out for the art that you took. Do you know how much it's worth?" He questioned, eyeing the bassist as he leaned forward.

"I dunno, $50?" He shrugged. Patrick rested his head in his hands, dearly hoping this wasn't coming out of their pay.

"Each piece they've valued at $1,000." Patrick let out what could only be described as a wail as he pulled his cap down over his face. "It was a French hotel. You think they'd put up any old crap on their walls?" He shot a glare towards Pete. "But don't worry, we've already paid them back and apologised on behalf of Fall Out Boy. Considering that we've bailed you out of worse situations, it wasn't that much of a strain on the label." He explained. "But... we are concerned that if you don't learn from your mistakes, that you'll continue to make them." He rested his hands on the table in front of them, trying to put on his best business face in the hopes that maybe their disobedient lyricist would finally take him seriously. The defiant look in his eyes suggested he wasn't about to.