Chapter Text
Patrick Stump leads a very quiet life, and he likes it that way.
“I lead a very quiet life,” he tells Joe, “and I like it that way.”
“Man, I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out more,” says Joe, shaking his head.
“No, I don’t,” says Patrick. “Please stop what you’re doing.” Because Joe is supposed to be arranging the albums at the front of the store but he’s doing a terrible job.
“You never let me pick the albums to highlight in the front window,” Joe complains.
“Because you’re bad at it,” Patrick says, shooing him away from the display.
“You’re mean.”
“I’m your boss. It’s my job to be mean.”
“I don’t think that’s right, but okay.”
“No, it’s right,” says Vicky, from where she’s supposed to be manning the cash register but she’s really flipping through a magazine. “That’s why he gets paid the big bucks: to be mean.”
Patrick doesn’t get paid any big bucks, but he’s not going to argue, because Joe steps away from the window.
And sighs heavily. “You just keep rotating the same five albums.”
“No, I don’t,” Patrick denies. “Anyway, who am I to argue with Ziggy Stardust?” Patrick holds the album up lovingly.
Joe shakes his head. “You’re very sad, bro. You’re a very sad individual.”
“No, I’m not.” Patrick puts the album carefully in the window, regards it affectionately. He’s definitely not sad; Bowie brings him great joy.
The record store brings him great joy. It’s not much, but it’s his. It’s quiet. He likes it. Adventure is seriously overrated.
Outside, a dreary day is fading into a misty twilight, and Patrick Stump has no idea his life is about to change.
He led a very quiet life. He liked it that way.
***
Pete Wentz leads a very noisy life. He’s not sure if he likes it anymore.
“I’m not sure if I like this anymore,” he says. He’s standing in the middle of a busy London street. Well, actually, the London street is completely closed to traffic, because he’s there, or, more accurately, his movie, and they’re supposed to be filming some incredibly complicated single-shot street scene, but the director, who’s a little out of control, is really upset that the leaves in the shot aren’t yellow enough, and a million people are running around trying to find the appropriately colored leaves somewhere in London, and Pete’s spent all day in full make-up waiting for this one shot, and he’s not sure if he likes this anymore.
“Too late,” Andy says, slurping at a cup of tea. Andy has taken to London with relish.
Pete is desperately homesick. This London shoot is dragging on forever. He really just wants a decent piece of pizza.
“You’re a terrible PA,” Pete accuses. “You’re supposed to support me. Also, you didn’t get me a cup of tea.”
“You hate tea,” Andy points out.
“You could have gotten me coffee.”
“I asked if you wanted coffee, and you said, ‘Does this fucking place ever see the fucking sun?’” Andy shrugs. “So I didn’t get you coffee.”
“No, really, you’re the worst,” Pete says sourly. Someone power-walks by him shouting, “Has anyone seen the special trash pile we’re using?” Pete decides, “I’m going to quit.”
“There’s a contract,” Andy says. “You’d lose a whole lot of money under the contract.”
“I have money,” Pete points out.
“Not enough liquid assets,” Andy replies.
“Suddenly you’re my fucking financial planner?” demands Pete.
“I just pay attention when people tell you things.” Unlike you, is implied.
Pete says, “Right. That’s what I pay you to do. Also, can you get me a cup of coffee?”
“I’m going to start a rumor about how high-maintenance you are,” says Andy as he walks off.
“You already tried that last movie, asshole!” Pete shouts after him.
Several people turn to look at him.
Great, that’s probably going to end up on social media somewhere.
“I said that lovingly,” Pete says. “It was a loving ‘asshole.’ It was like… Thanks for everything you do, my darling asshole!”
Andy sends a middle finger in his direction.
“Asshole,” Pete mutters, and scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t actually think Andy’s an asshole. He actually really likes Andy. He’s just tired. He feels it coming on, creeping at the edges of him. He’s been working nonstop, throwing himself into it, keeping himself busy, but that can only go on for so long, and he feels lost in this city, detached from himself, and it’s not good. It’s very not good. He’s not sleeping and that’s not unusual but he’s itchy with it in this strange city whose rhythms feel foreign to him. Homesickness is a tangible weight he’s dragging around with him.
He’s calling it ‘homesickness’ because that seems better than naming it anything else.
Andy comes back with the coffee. They stand around for a while longer. They lose the light. The director rants and raves and says they have to try again tomorrow with the right leaves. Bebe, his costar for the film, gives him a wry smile and a shrug and says, “See you tomorrow, Petey.”
Probably Bebe is off to a night on the town. Part of Pete wants to ask if he can tag along, but the thought of it feels exhausting. He doesn’t think he’s going to be able to lose himself in whatever booze he might be able to find, and he doesn’t want to spend a raw night in front of Bebe.
Andy says, as they part ways in the hotel lobby, “You’re okay, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Pete waves a hand around.
Pete’s not fine.
Pete stands in the middle of his suite and feels the walls closing in on him. He feels like the only person awake in the entire city, even though it’s not late and everyone is awake out there, he can see the cars zipping around. Everyone’s awake, Pete assures himself. You’re not alone.
It doesn’t help.
Jittery, he turns around and leaves the room. He steps out onto the busy London sidewalks. It’s drizzling. He pulls his hoodie up over his head and tries to sink into it. He wants to be invisible, and he wants human contact at the same time. He doesn’t know what he wants. He follows the flow of the bustle of the sidewalks mindlessly, until it’s abruptly too much, and then he turns blindly down a side road, and then another side road, and another, until he’s completely lost. He has no idea where he is. And he forgot to bring his fucking cell phone. He literally walked out of the hotel room without his cell phone. Andy’s going to kill him when he finds out about this.
It’s much quieter where he is now. There is a single person on the sidewalk, walking away. They stride past him hurriedly, head down against the cold rain, clearly just trying to get things over with. Pete pauses and looks up and down the street. It’s wet and windswept, streetlights gleaming in puddles dotted with leaves the director would have rejected. Upstairs, a few windows have lights on, but they’re muted against shutters and curtains and drawn blinds.
There is, on ground level, one single beacon of light.
Pete heads for it.
The glowing window displays albums: Bowie, The Smiths , Saves the Day.
Pete smiles. It’s a record store. How delightful. He hasn’t been in a record store in ages, not since he let slip in an interview once how much he enjoyed them. Now it’s like every record store in the greater Los Angeles area is staked out by paparazzi hoping to catch sight of Pete Wentz.
Not so in London, though. Tonight he’s been anonymous, as far as he can tell. He looks up and down the dark street and it’s utterly deserted. If a pap is biding their time in the shadows of one of these buildings, well, Pete hopes he gets pneumonia from standing in a puddle.
Pete looks back at the window of the store. Through the window, past the display of albums, in the store itself, there’s a man. Cinnamon hair spiking out dramatically from his forehead. Clad in black skinny jeans, a white shirt, and a tweed vest. With cobalt blue sneakers. The man is stocking the shelves at the back of the store but he’s also dancing, just a little bit, a rhythmic bob of his head, a tempo to the way he slides the albums onto the shelves, the punctuation mark of a twitch of his hips. Whatever he’s listening to, he’s enjoying it.
Pete abruptly wants to be inside this store, with this man, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. It’s a sure and certain tug. Pete is familiar with siren songs; Pete has a small pharmacy’s worth of siren songs that sit by his bedside in lined-up prescription bottles, beckoning Pete to let them drown out the voices in his head. This is a different sort of siren song altogether. The man in the store two-steps over to a fresh box of records and does a little twirl and Pete swallows reflexively, like letting a pill hit his bloodstream on an empty stomach.
Pete walks into the store.