Listen (Patrick Stump / Fall Out Boy Fanfic)

Chapter 1 - The Hand Behind This Pen

                  

Far too early on the morning after our meeting, I found myself parked in front of a Barnes and Noble. I sat in the car for a moment, debating whether or not this was even worth it, but ultimately reached over the center console and grabbed my notebook off the passenger seat. I pulled a couple of pens out of the glovebox and checked the time on my phone before groaning at the fact that it was only ten in the morning. Finally, I pulled on the handle of the door and pushed it open, swinging my legs out of the car and stepping out onto the pavement.

            There was a thin layer of wet snow on the ground, making me want to pull my coat tighter about my shoulders before proceeding towards the building. It was late October, and Chicago was already covered in snow, a slight breeze nipping at my nose and the tips of my ears as I trudged across the parking lot. It wasn't a long walk to the front doors of the bookstore because I was one of the only people here, either because it was way too early, or because most people were either at work or at school at this time on a Tuesday morning. Either way, I hugged my notebook to my chest and shuffled into the building, relaxing once the heat enveloped me.

            I came here to write once in a while, only because it was fairly easy for people in here to ignore the guy who looked like a hipster with his Starbucks and a fedora. Paparazzi never bothered me in here, and I was fairly well-accustomed to hiding my face from fans when I didn't want to be bothered. Still, it was nice to hear them excitedly ask for a picture now and again. But today would be one of those days when I simply didn't want to be interrupted. I needed to get something written, if it killed me, and I was going to do it in the back corner of the café, with a Chai tea latte in hand.

            I headed straight for the café line, which only consisted of two people, and patiently waited my turn, with my notebook tucked under my arm. When the barista asked for my order I gave it to her quietly, hoping beyond hope that she wouldn't recognize me. She didn't, though she did do a double take as I handed her my money. A few minutes later, she handed me my tea, and I turned around to search for a table.

            I found one in the back corner, just as I had hoped for, and quickly made my way over to it. I set down my tea and notebook, pulling one of my pens from my pocket and shrugged my jacket off of my shoulders. I flipped the notebook open to a blank page, and stared at it for a moment. I knew I had nothing, so I pulled out my phone and opened the email that Pete had sent me immediately after he had gotten home last night. He'd sent me a few nonsensical lines of poetry, but nothing that I could really piece together into a song. Instead, I went line by line, writing each one down on a separate page.

            You know time crawls on when you're waiting for the song to start, so dance alone to the beat of your heart.

            This is the story of how they met. Her picture was on the back of a pack of cigarettes.

            I've got the scars from tomorrow and I wish you could see that you're the antidote to everything except for me.

            Your crooked love is just a pyramid scheme, and I'm dizzy on dreams.

            I'm in the details with the devil, so now the world can never get me on my level.

            I immediately crossed out the last line, and flipped back to the page where I had written the one about the scars from tomorrow, deciding that they might eventually pair well together if I could ever fill in the blanks with more lyrics. I sighed and leaned my head on my arm on the table. Well, at last I had a starting point.

            I decided to continue working on that song for a while, scribbling down a line or two and then crossing them out when I decided that they didn't work well enough with Pete's. An hour passed and I had finished my tea, still having written only one line of my own to go with Pete's. It read: All the writers keep writing what they write. Somewhere another pretty vein just dies. I've got the scars from tomorrow and I wish you could see that you're the antidote to everything except for me. I set my pen down for a moment and sighed, leaning back in my chair. That line was the most I've written in weeks, and I still wasn't too sure if I liked it or not.