perverted scumbag

Things have started to even out, after the rocky start of the first few months here, and life settles gradually into a rhythm that they’re finally starting to get good at, that becomes easy and comfortable with practice as they work out the kinks in their busy schedules. It’s still not perfect, but it’s good, most of the time, and sometimes, despite the long hours they’re all putting in, despite the strain that always comes with sharing space, it’s even fun.

Work and class eat up the better part of Patrick’s time, but even then he works on music in his head — tapping out drumbeats with the end of his pen in lecture, humming variations on a tune he can’t quite get right, turning Petra’s poetics into song between customers at work. Midterms have wrapped up, at least, and he doesn’t think he’d failed any; with the free time where he had been studying, he practices harder than ever, even on his own, picking out melodies and running through challenging chord shifts on the electric Joe’s been lending him for shows until the movements become as natural as breathing.

And, yeah, they’re still struggling to find a drummer who will stay with them for more than a couple of shows — or, otherwise, who Petra doesn’t kick out, deciding they don’t fit into the vision she has for their future — and they still haven’t really decided whether they need a second guitarist, or whether that’s Patrick’s job too. Still, Patrick is pretty sure this is the longest he’s ever been a part of the same band, and they’ve developed a repertoire by now that lets them never play the same show twice in a row, and he thinks — though he hasn’t been brave enough to ask and find out for sure — that Petra might have even turned down other projects in favor of this Fall Out Boy thing with him and Joe, which means she still thinks it’s the most worthwhile endeavor she has available.

Well, as long as Petra is in, he’s in — and, privately, he’s even starting to believe they might have a future, if they can actually get a couple more songs of their own put together. It could happen. It could.

So if maybe he puts a little more energy into the band than he does his schoolwork, maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world, even if they’re not really making money off of their music yet.

———

It feels like Petra’s mood shifts just as the weather does, and suddenly she stops going out at all hours of the day, seeing other people’s shows and crashing their afterparties, spending nights with whatever boy she’s been seeing. Instead she hides, alone, in her room, sullen and quiet, and can only be lured out to practice or perform; she hides it well on stage behind a crooked smile that doesn't reach her eyes, but at home, it’s clear she’s not doing well.

For his part, Patrick tries to leave her be as much as he can, because she’s surly and snappish when they do talk, and it feels like every discussion they have starts to turn into an argument before long — but it’s not exactly as if he can avoidher, either, when she’s the actual backbone of the band he’s supposed to be fronting for.

“Eh, she’ll come out of it before too long,” Joe says, shrugging, when Patrick asks if he has any ideas of how to help. “Just don’t take it too personally. It's not you, it’s her.”

“I know,” Patrick agrees, pained, “but I wish she’d actually talk to — fuck, one of us, anyways.”

Joe snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I dunno if she’s much of a talker when she’s like this — especially not about how she’s actually feeling.”

Which isn’t exactly the answer Patrick had wanted to hear. But Joe has known Petra longer, and knows her better; if he doesn’t think there’s much they can do to help, there probably isn’t, and if anything, pushing her seems like a good way to make things worse.

Anyways, it’s not exactly as if he has room to judge her. It’s not like he talks to anyone when he’s doing badly — or, for that matter, like he can’t be an asshole about it, too. So he tries to give her space, and only bothers her when he has to, whether it’s for a chat about music or lyrics they’re working on or for logistical stuff about upcoming shows.

He tries not to think about what it says about him that he misses her so damn much.

Everyone gets busy around Thanksgiving, mostly with a bunch of stupid stuff that has nothing to do with Fall Out Boy or music at all: extra shifts at work, exams at school, and no shortage of family bullshit that everyone can’t help getting involved with. Petra’s siblings are both younger than her, and still live at home, but Patrick’s come in from out of town for the week of the holiday, and Joe is out of town for the weekend visiting his family somewhere in Ohio, maybe, so they can’t play any shows until he gets back.

And of course it’s nice — it’s always nice — when Patrick gets to see his family, especially now that he doesn’t have to live with them anymore. But he can only tolerate so much of being dragged back and forth across town between Glenview and Evanston and God knows where else they wants to meet up in the city proper.

“I mean,” says his brother on Tuesday when he points this out, “we could come over to your new place.”

Patrick gives him a dirty look and doesn’t deign to respond. Like hell he’s letting either of them see the tiny, crowded two-bedroom he’s sharing with two roommates right now, even if he is plenty happy with it for his first apartment.

Mom must have won the Thanksgiving argument this year, because they’re going to her house for dinner, so Patrick spends the morning of Thanksgiving, way too early after a late shift at work the night before, at Dad’s house, eating waffles for breakfast and talking with his siblings around the kitchen table. They end up mostly chatting about nothing important, just movies and the news and the cold weather; by Thursday, they’ve all more or less caught up on each other’s lives already, and Patrick has shared more than enough about his school semester and his shitty job at the corner store.

He’s talked, a little, about the band, too, but it feels dangerous, somehow, to discuss it too much, to talk about it like it’s any more than any of the other acts he’d played for on and off through high school — no matter how much he wants to tell them that he’s working on figuring out a third song of their own to demo for studios. They’ll find out when they find out, he decides — if there ever is anything to find out. And, if not, he won’t have disappointed anyone.

———

It snows all day on Sunday, and Patrick spends most of the day half-asleep on the couch, pretending he doesn’t have homework, occasionally tuning in enough to catch a few minutes of the football game he’s only sort of keeping track of. Petra emerges from her room, briefly, to grab a leftover piece of pie for lunch, and then disappears again before he has a chance to say hi. The wind rattles the storm door in its frame and whips the flurries sideways across the kitchen window.

Joe gets back an hour late, tired and a little grumpy, shaking the snow out of his hair and stamping his boots on the doormat. “Hey,” he says, throwing his bag on the floor as he kicks off his boots in the corner.

“Hey,” Patrick says, raising one hand in a lazy wave. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” Joe says, and slouches over to the couch. “Can I sit down? I’m fuckin’ beat.”

Patrick groans and sits up, swinging his feet down from the arm of the couch to give Joe space to sit. “Roads bad?” he asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I haven’t left the apartment all day.”

“Could be worse,” Joe says, shrugging, “but they aren’t fantastic, either.”

“You must be starved,” Patrick says. “I was kinda thinking I might get Chinese, you in?”

At that, Joe’s surly expression splits into a grin instead. “Fuck, dude, I would owe you my life. There is no way I’m making myself food right now.”

“Yeah, I’ll order something,” Patrick says, and pushes himself up from the couch to hunt down a takeout menu. “You think Petra might want some?”

Joe shrugs and glances down the hall toward her room. “Guess you could ask. They must have, like, fried tofu, or something, right?” He looks back at Patrick, frowning again, and adds, almost as an afterthought, “You know how her holiday went?”

Patrick shrugs and shakes his head. He hasn’t exchanged more than five words with her since Thursday, and he keeps hesitating whenever he thinks about cornering her into talking. “I’ll go check if there’s anything she likes,” he says, waving the menu vaguely, and tiptoes down the hall to her room.

He’s half expecting silence when he knocks, or worse, a total dismissal, but she opens the door a crack and peers out at him. He thinks the shadows under her eyes don’t look like makeup. “Hey,” he says, awkwardly, and holds out the menu. “Joe and I were gonna order some Chinese, so I was… wondering if… you maybe…?”

“Yeah,” Petra says, to his surprise, and nods as she takes it from his hand. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” he agrees, feeling suddenly a little lightheaded. “Of course. Any time.”

He isn’t sure she’ll join them in the living room, but she does, settling down on the floor across from the couch and stretching out her legs under the coffee table. Patrick leans against the kitchen counter as he waits for her and Joe to decide on their orders.

“You know what I’m thankful for?” he says when he gets off the phone with the restaurant. “Food I don’t have to have any part in cooking.”

Petra laughs, and it almost sounds genuine. “Well, as much as I love them,” she says, “I’m grateful for a place to get away from my family.”

Joe raises an imaginary glass. Patrick grins and takes a seat on the couch again, kicking his feet up on the table.

“So speaking of family, how were your guys’ holidays?” Joe asks, and they catch each other up on how the weekend had been for everyone until the food arrives. To Patrick’s surprise, Petra doesn’t take her spring rolls and fried tofu back to her room, but stays out in the living room with them even while she eats, talking about the holiday and her family, listening to him and Joe about theirs.