Patrick was hesitant to pick up music again. From the way that Pete had been talking, it was clear that it was something that was essential to who he used to be. Apparently he was super talented, he could play loads of instruments, and according to Pete, 'had the voice of an angel'.
It was such an odd thought. Everyone had told him that he was some kind of musician, he used to work at a record shop, and he used to write all these amazing songs for his band to play. And yet he felt absolutely empty when it came to music now.
That was probably why he was hesitant when Pete kept pushing him to come down to the basement and pick up an instrument. Everyone had these expectations of him, that he was good at this kind of stuff, and yet as Pete handed him a guitar, the body felt unfamiliar and the only thing he really wanted to do was hand it back.
He was sitting on a stool, in the middle of this room that felt familiar, and it felt warm to Patrick. Like good things happened in this room, and he that once upon a time he was happy when he was here. He couldn't tell what those things were, but the comforting atmosphere did provide some relief. Pete walked over and plugged the guitar into an amp, and came back with a pick. Unlike the guitar, the pick did fit perfectly in Patrick's hand, and it found it's place on the strings immediately.
"Can I try something?" Pete asked, picking his bass up and setting it up. "I'm gonna start playing some of our songs, and then if you remember, you come in with the notes, alright?"
"Do we have songs?"
"Just try."
"Okay..."
Pete started. He started with the bass line, and smiled excitedly, but there was no input from his friend who seemed to only be listening. He tried again with the same song, and still nothing. Then with a different song. Nothing. This probably went for about half an hour (Pete had pretty much tried every song on the record) before he noticed Patrick's knee bouncing in time with the beat.
"Okay, pass that back." Pete took the guitar off him and put it away, before sitting him down at the drum kit. "Do you know what instrument this is?"
"Drums." Patrick responded quickly, running his finger along the edge of the cymbal.
"Uh huh. And who plays drums?"
"Andy." Patrick responded, again, not missing a beat.
"And?" Pete prompted with a smile.
"And what?"
"And who else plays drums?"
There was a moment of silence before realisation appeared visibly across Patrick's face. "I do."
"That's right." Pete grinned, running and grabbing his drumsticks. "These are yours."
Patrick took them in his hands, and ran his hands over the wood. They felt familiar, and comfortable, and without even thinking he spun one of them around in his hands. "I, I think I know these."
"Yeah? That's good." Pete smiled. "Those ones are your drumsticks."
"Andy's not allowed to play with them. These... these were expensive... I don't, I didn't like to share them."
Pete grinned widely, and patted his friend on the shoulder. "That's right buddy. You got this."
"Are you gonna play and wait for me to come in again?" Patrick asked.
"No, I think it's better if you just go freestyle." Pete sat down on the stool in the middle of the room and watched his friend. He remembered the early days, when Patrick never wanted to sing at all. All he wanted was to sit at the back of the stage and hide behind the drum kit. This was the instrument he had known the longest, and was probably the one he was most confident in playing. That probably explained why he had a memory of the drumsticks, but Pete didn't dare say anything. He didn't want Patrick to feel he had expectations. He just wanted him to go at it in his own time.
Patrick stared at the drum kit for a good 10 minutes, unsure of what he was meant to do and where he was meant to start. Then his foot found the pedal of the bass drum, and then he felt his hands start moving. Consciously, he had no recollection of this. He truly had no idea what his hands were doing, what any of these drums were called, but his hands were moving and he was making music now. And Pete had this huge smile on his face, obviously overjoyed at what his friend was doing.
It was about a 10-minute drum solo, and by the time he was done, he was dripping in sweat, and had this little smile on his face, showing he was pleased as well with what he'd done. "T-That was pretty cool."
Pete couldn't stop smiling as he handed his friend a bottle of water (The basement was known to get extraordinary hot in the spring and summer, especially during band practice). "You did amazing, 'Trick."
"Thanks." Patrick breathed, pouring the cool liquid down his throat. "Hang on, wait... does that mean that I play the drums in our band?"
"Not exactly." Pete explained. "You were gonna be the drummer originally, but then we found out what an amazing singer you are and now you're the singer and guitarist."
"Am I good at singing?"
"You're the best at singing."
"Huh. Okay..." Patrick pondered that thought for a while. "So then what does Brendon do?"
"Brendon, Brendon, um..." Pete thought about it, but in the end just realised there was no good to come from lying to his best friend, and told the truth. "Brendon's not a part of our band. He's stepping in, because you had a little bit of trouble with singing for us for a while."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
Patrick thought about it for a few moments, taking another sip of water. "Does that have anything to do with me going splat?"
Pete winced, and slowly turned around. "Um, well.... Yeah. It does."
Patrick just nodded and looked down at his lap. "So, does that mean that I'm not the singer anymore? How long is Brendon gonna be around?"
"We don't know, Patrick. If I can be honest here, I don't want Brendon in the band. He's not a part of it. It's always been you, me, Joe and Andy, and it feels wrong to have someone else singing the lyrics and stuff."
"Lyrics. They're the words of the song, right?"
"Yeah." Pete sat back down. "The reason a lot of people like our band is not just because our music sounds good, it's because we try and make the lyrics mean something to ourselves and people. It just very special to the four of us, and it feels weird to have someone else doing it."
"Huh."
"So yeah, that's why I'm a little bit funny about it."
"I understand." Patrick murmured.
Pete gave a hesitant smile. "But hey, look, I'm gonna fight this tour for as long as I can, and y'know I don't really think Brendon's a bad guy or whatever, but I don't wanna play with him. If we're gonna play a Fall Out Boy show, then it should just be Fall Out Boy, don't you think?"
"I still don't understand the tour." Patrick admitted.
"It's essentially 3 months on the road where we play a lot of concerts. And because your leg is hurt and your head is hurt, it's not going to be good for you. There'll be lots of stairs and you might fall, and you're really not ready to travel the country in bus just yet. I think we just need to cancel the damn thing – they've pushed it back 3 times now, it should be clear that it's not going ahead and the band just needs a break."
"Right." Patrick nodded. "Have we done a tour before?"
"Yeah, but none as big as this."
"Did I enjoy it?"
"Um... I think you liked playing the shows, but not really the travelling and the going places and stuff. And this tour wouldn't even have any of the stuff you liked, because you'd just be sitting at the back."
"Sitting?"
"Yeah, your leg is broken?"
"It is?!" Patrick glanced down, and screamed in alarm, before falling off his stool.
Pete immediately ran over, and helped his friend up. Patrick was hyperventilating, and Pete offered water and sat with him on the floor while waiting for this sudden panic attack to pass. It didn't take too long to pass, but for Patrick, it felt like an eternity. When did that happen? Why was his leg in a cast? Why couldn't he remember it?!
"Shhh, shhh, don't worry, it's alright." Pete assured, gently rubbing his back. "It's not a big deal, everything's okay, I've got you."
"I-I-" Patrick stammered, his eyes filled with tears.
"Don't worry, I've got you." Pete assured for a second time, putting his arms around his friend in a hug. "Shhh."
"I f-forgot, Pete!" Patrick whispered with terror. "I forgot again and t-this isn't, this isn't a good thing!"
"It's all gonna be fine, buddy." Pete patted his back, hiding his own anxieties for the sake of his friend. "Don't worry about it. Just deep breaths, alright?"
When deep breaths were taken and they got back upstairs, all Patrick wanted to do was go to bed and lie with his bears. Pete tucked him in, like a good friend, and told him that he'd feel a lot better when he woke up.
"Can you just stay?" Patrick asked, pulling the bears over and making a spare side of the bed. "I won't make too much noise, I promise..."
Pete didn't hesitate in kicking his shoes off and lying down beside him. Patrick snuggled right up, even going so far as to rest his head on Pete's shoulder. "I'm sorry I keep forgetting things."
"Don't be sorry, Patrick." Pete told him softly. "It's not your fault, and you're trying so, so hard. Nobody's mad at you for not being able to remember stuff."
"O-Okay." He mumbled glumly, pulling one of the many bears to his chest. "Thank you for being nice to me."
"It's my pleasure, 'Trick. Thank you for being my best friend."
Patrick just blushed, and closed his eyes. "Thank you for being a really nice pillow."
"For you, Patrick, I'll be whatever you need."