What would happen if you met a very sad Patrick Stump in a bar at 2:00 in the morning? What would happen if Brendon Urie kidnapped you an locked you in his basement? What would happen if Pete Wentz was the obnoxious prince from the next kingdom over...
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Some Background Info: You are 19 in this | Patrick is 28 | This is, of course, Soul Punk era Patrick | Elisa never existed, so Patrick is single | You, however, are dating someone. |
KEY: (Y/N)= Your Name
July 23, 2012 Chicago, Illinois 1:55 AM Your POV
Working at Gilt Bar can sound like a pretty cool job for a nineteen-year-old to the average person. You get to meet hot guys and hear all the latest gossip. Hell, you even have a large supply of alcohol at your fingertips that you could drink for free (when your boss isn't looking, of course. Hey, I didn't say it was legal!).
Well, working here isn't exactly ideal. You had to wear a revealing outfit that consisted of black booty-shorts and a red low cut V-neck. Being dressed the way you were drew a lot of unwanted attention from creepy washed up 40-year-old men. You've even had to kick costumers out for getting too ballsy and grabbing your butt, and sometimes your boobs.
Besides all that, you had to work the graveyard shift, which meant you were going home at around 3:00 in the morning. Luckily for you, the end of the night didn't host many patrons, especially on the weekdays. Despite all of this, you had no choice but to continue working here because, well, you had to pay the bills somehow. It wasn't like your lazy-ass boyfriend, Robbie, was going to get out of the apartment you two shared to help out. Not when there were football playoffs to watch on the HD channel you paid for.
You continued to wipe down the bar counter, glancing up and the analog clock behind you and saw it was 1:55 in the morning. Just 5 minutes until the bar closed and you could go home. There was only one person left at the bar, head down and pale fingers cradling an empty glass. It was a skinny man with a dark brown trench coat and a quiff of dyed yellow hair atop his head. You cleared your throat. "Hey, buddy. I have to lock this place up in five."
The man glanced up at you before looking back at his glass. "I-I'm sorry, ma'am." You chuckled a little and made your way over to him. "I don't deserve to be called ma'am. I'm only 19." The man just sighed and swirled the dregs that were still remaining in his glass. You knew that this guy must have felt like shit and you took pity on him. After all, you were a bartender.
"What's your name?" You asked, taking a bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf behind you and filling his glass. The man looked up at you with beautiful greenish-blue eyes that were swimming with sadness. "Patrick, miss. And I'm sorry I called you ma'am-"
You waved your hand, cutting him off. "It's fine, Patrick. I was kidding." Patrick twitched his tiny nose before suddenly saying, "And your name is..." You smirked and gestured to your name tag, making his cheeks turn red in embarrassment. "Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't see your name tag. I'm so stupid-" You cut off his rambling with a laugh.
