Of Rockstars and Rabbits

Patrick was a rock star now.

At least, that was what he was telling himself as he rifled through his closet, trying to find something that wasn’t…um…something he’d normally wear.

Pants weren’t the problem. Pants, who fucking cares about pants. He’d grabbed some old, battered jeans that fit him, and maybe he’d make a few tears in them or…whatever. He’d figure something out. And he had belts and shoes, too, and lots of his beloved hats. None of that was problematic.

The shirts were the problem. Band shirts were cool, band shirts were awesome, but they were the only wearable thing he owned. Everything else was polo shirts and bright colors and wow, where did he get all this fucking argyle, who said argyle was a good idea, Patrick.

His heart grew a little fluttery in his chest. They were hitting the road tomorrow. They were all climbing in the van, Joe, Andy, Pete, and Patrick, climbing in the van and driving, touring. They had actual fans that wanted them to tour so they were touring. Tomorrow.

…

Tomorrow.

And Patrick had nothing to wear.

FUCKING FUCK, WHERE DID HE GET ALL THIS ARGYLE.

Patrick heaved a tremendous sigh as he tried to get himself back on track. Not again. Nope. No, self. We are not having this panic attack again.

Soon, however, he surrendered, sinking down on his bed and clutching a terrible excuse for…some sort of…V-neck thing.

He wasn’t ready to be a rock star. He felt like a poser, like he’d tricked his way into the scene, like he’d deceived his friends. He didn’t lie to them, ever, at any point; he simply didn’t correct them until it was too late. And it wasn’t that the band was anything less than his wildest dreams come fucking true, either— it was that he was completely unprepared for his fantasies to collide with reality so suddenly. Nothing about him was cool or hip or edgy, and he was the frontman. It was his job to know what he was doing at all times, but right now, when it counted, he had no fucking clue.

His life was taking a turn for the better and crumbling at his feet, all at the same time.

Gritting his teeth, Patrick threw the shirt across the room, out of frustration more than anger, and flopped heavily back onto the bed, landing not on the pillow, but on something…less soft and more oddly-shaped.

Rolling over, he found it was Flopsy.

Oh. Flopsy.

Recognition came with a wave of relief. Flopsy was safe, simple, familiar. Soft brown fur, black bead eyes, itty-bitty smile, absurdly large, goofy ears…everything about the little guy was warm and loving and easy.

It was stupid, he knew. It was stupid and abnormal and flat-out creepy for a guy his age to be so attached to a stuffed bunny. Especially to a cheap, goofy little thing he hadn’t even had for most of his life (he won it at a fair somewhere when he was nine and refused to put it down for the next year and a half). Even so, Flopsy was normal for him, a friend when he didn’t have any, an anchor through some of his biggest little-kid stresses. It was reassuring to keep the damn thing around, if only for the nostalgia.

Patrick sat up again and held it for a moment. The bunny grinned unfalteringly up at him, and that smile did wonders for his mood. It seemed to say,I’ve known you for ages, you big idiot, and I know you’re gonna be okay.

Such was the magic of favorite toys, Patrick supposed. He held the rabbit for a few more moments before lurching to his feet and tucking it into his suitcase before he could change his mind.

~~

They had bad shows. They had shitty coffee. They had a shitty, drafty van, they had too much shit to carry around, and they didn’t have thick enough sleeping bags.

But Patrick had Flopsy.

He stored the little guy in the bottom of his sleeping bag, the sleeping bag he fervently claimed for his own and refused to let anyone touch. The other guys found his protectiveness and paranoia amusing and humored him, never getting too close to it.

Every night, when he was sure Andy and Joe were asleep and Pete was sufficiently distracted, he pulled Flopsy out and clutched him to his chest, inhaling deep, the comfortable smell of must and home always there. This was good. This was easy. There was nothing to decide, no interviews to worry about, no lyrics to remember, nothing bad about the bunny. It was there to be held and loved, and as long as Patrick kept it safe, Flopsy would always be there to give him a little peace.

In the mornings, he was usually burrowed far enough into his bag that he could tuck Flopsy to the bottom without raising suspicion. After that, he would roll the whole thing up and store it before plunging headfirst into another day as the frontman of a rapidly-spreading rock sensation.

~~

Something was wrong.

Patrick had gone on a coffee run, which should have been telling enough. He never went for coffee; no one trusted him with anything that could be spilled or broken. Joe was the only one who ever did coffee runs, since he was the one least likely to trip over sunbeams or some shit.

But today, they asked Patrick, and Patrick was too grateful for the fresh air to be suspicious.

When he swung open the van’s left-side door, though, there was something completely wrong. All the other guys were huddled in the back seat on the opposite side, looking absolutely, irrevocably, one-hundred-percent guilty of something.

The first place Patrick’s eyes flicked was his sleeping bag. Sure enough, it was very poorly rolled up, much more lop-sided than it was when he left.

He scowled. “What did you do.”

Pete was the first to crack, giggling nervously. Joe followed suit, and finally, Andy reached behind himself and pulled out Flopsy, pinching its ears between his fingers and grinning like a moron.

Patrick didn’t even say anything, just lunged across the seats, hand outstretched desperately. Andy, however, tossed it to Joe, who dove into the very back. When the singer got close enough, he threw it back to Andy, who passed it to Pete, now in the passenger’s seat.

“You guys,” Patrick whined pathetically, knowing he couldn’t stop them from torturing him and Flopsy alike.

The bassist made a show of examining the thing. “Pat, you sleep with this thing? It’s gotta be covered in germs or some shit.”

“Pete, please give him back, I’ll do—”

“It’s a boy?” He laughed. “I would’ve thought you’d need all the girls in your life you could get.”

“Pete.”

“It’s unhealthy to be attached to shit like this at your age, bro. I’d be doing you a favor if I just tossed it out the window and drove away—”

“Pete.”

“Fucking what, dude—” Pete contorted in his seat to look behind and cut himself off.

There was no amusement on Patrick’s face. He was entirely pissed off. Not even the funny kind of pissed off, like an overreaction, either; it was just…sad. Pathetic. Hopless.

It made Pete do a double take. He hadn’t seen such a desperate look on Patrick’s face since their first cruel review. Damn. The poor sucker was really fucking hurt over this, really fucking scared and worried and genuinely angry.

Silence and time expanded in the van.

Finally, Pete held out the bunny, and the singer snatched it away and held it like a long-lost friend.

“Sorry, dude.” It wasn’t much, but it was the best apology he could muster at the moment, and Patrick just nodded mutely.

Joe climbed up front and wrapped an arm around his friend. “That was wrong, man, we’re so fucking sorry. That was not okay.”

He smiled and looked up, a little recovered, now. “No, it’s okay. I overreacted, a little. It’s…stupid. Really stupid. But he means a lot to me, he helps me get my mind off the…off the shows and stuff.”

The others weren’t idiots, they could recognize an understatement when they saw one.

Andy clambered up behind Patrick and tugged at one of the bunny’s ears. “What’s his name?”

“…You’ll laugh.”

“If it’s ‘Hop’ or ‘Bun-bun’, then yes, I will.”

The singer grinned. “No, it’s Flopsy.”

The bassist squealed and clapped a hand over his mouth. Andy bit his lip. Joe let out a chuckle he badly disguised as a cough.

He rolled his eyes. “I told you that you’d laugh!”

“Who’s laughing? I’m not laughing!” the drummer exclaimed, snorting. Pete was writhing on the seat next to him, practically in tears.

“Fuck you guys,” complained Patrick, despite his grin and the lack of malice in his voice. Quickly, while they were distracted, he made his way back to his sleeping bag to stow his friend away safely.

Once the trio had recovered themselves, the band resumed preparing for the day as though nothing had happened. It was pretty remarkable, how…not awkward it was. Nothing was different— life went on. Andy elbowed everyone in the nuts trying to call dibs on driving; Pete settled down (in vain) for a nap; Joe complained about the lack of anything smokable. It was almost kind of…surreal, how quickly his bandmates dropped the topic when it upset him.

They really, really cared. They really didn’t want to see their singer, their friend, hurt.

For for the first time, Patrick Stump didn’t care what he was doing or where he was going (at a very-illegal, exceedingly-dangerous eighty miles an hour), just so long as those wonderful douchebags were along for the ride, too.

~~

Someone jabbed him in the side.

“Pat. Yo. Patrick. Bro wake up wake up wake up.”

“Nn?” He cracked his eyes open, trying to peer through the darkness. “Whozat? Pete?”

An exasperated sigh. “No, it’s the fucking Easter Bunny. Look man, I’m having a bad night, a really bad night. I need— I need a favor.”

Patrick propped himself up on his elbow, being careful not to squish Flopsy. An outline was barely visible leaning over the seat in front of him. “Whad’ya need.”

“I need that bunny.”

He froze. “Wh—”

“Dude just shh don’t ask I need it, okay, I need it.”

Of course, the last thing he wanted was to hand his beloved childhood toy to his borderline-psychopathic bassist in the middle of the fucking night. That’s one of the basic rules for keeping a valuable anything intact— do not lend it to crazy friends. Even so…Pete’s voice was so urgent and pained. Forced. Something was wrong— nightmares, maybe. Poor guy was scared to shit.

What else could he do? Patrick held out the bunny.

Pete snatched it away and grabbed his friend around the neck. “Thank you thank you thank you,” he spat before rolling over his seat, settling on Patrick’s with his head on his knee, and shutting his eyes comically tight.

Strangely enough, he was zonked out in a matter of moments.

Stranger still, so was Patrick.

~~

The bunny became a private mascot. One of them would sneak it onstage in a place only the band could see. Someone would stash it in the drum set to puzzle Andy. It would end up stuffed down shirts and doused in water, smelling of coffee and weed and booze and badly-cleaned venues. Even other bands got in on it, occasionally copping it for a day and returning it smellier than before.

And very night, Patrick would fall asleep with it.

But some nights, Pete would ask nicely. Those were the nights Patrick didn’t need Flopsy at all, when he’d take comfort in knowing he’d paid his friend back for his small mercy ages ago.

On those nights, Patrick knew he’d never need to remember home, as long as he had his friends.

(And his stupid Flopsy.)