The Art of Fake-Dating

When Patrick catches Pete balls fucking deep in Ryan Ross (in their shared hotel room, mind you) for the third time that week, he gives up. A "fuck this!" is directed towards them the moment he shields his eyes, but really more like at his whole entire life, because he and Pete were supposed to be having a talk tonight and Pete doesn't even have the courtesy to fucking pull out. He doesn't even look startled. He just smiles at Patrick and moans out, "Raincheck?". This makes Ryan finally notice him standing there, and he frowns, just fucking frowns, a menial downturn of the lips and Patrick seriously hates his life.

His cheeks burn as he slams the door behind him. "No, Pete! No fucking raincheck!" He shouts abruptly, before immediately feeling guilty about the people he might've disturbed. But then he groans, because he totally has a reason to shout and groan all he wants, and he walks back into the elevator, clicking the first floor button with too much force. Fuck this. Bad things always happen in New York.

_____________________________________________

So, Pete's always been sort of a man-whore.

It's not like he's rude about it. He's just a one-night-stand kind of guy, and everyone he sleeps with are also one-night-stand sort of people. That doesn't stop it from bothering Patrick. Because it does. It really does.

He had reached the point of fed up after the fourth Ryan Ross incident (okay, maybe that was a one-tour-stand, but whatever; somehow they remained friends regardless) and maybe he shouted at Pete until the fuck finally stopped laughing about how funny Patrick looked when his face went all red with rage. Pete even dared to ask him (when he stopped stifling chuckles enough to frown) if it was because Ryan was a boy and not a girl, and Patrick may have punched him really hard in the arm, possibly. It was totally a dumb question.

After Pete stopped pouting and rubbing his arm, blatantly ignoring Patrick for a whole hour, he crawled into Patrick's bunk with his metaphorical tail between his legs, and his best friend didn't even complain about being squished in the confined space like usual. Pete sighed into his chest and apologized, and that was that. Patrick assured him that the girls bothered him just as much. And Pete at least started to learn to put up the 'Do Not Disturb' sign. Sometimes he left a little note, sometimes he even went to his partner's hotel room instead of bringing them where Patrick would have to sleep (he told Pete he'd like to lay his head where Gabe Saporta hadn't laid his dick, thank you very much). Sometimes Pete didn't even fuck anyone at all and just stayed up with Patrick watching dumb game shows and documentaries that were about as interesting as watching paint dry, simply to make fun of them together, which was Patrick's favorite of all the things he did in compromise. Things were kind of awesome.

Things stay kind of awesome until their tour with My Chemical Romance.

Patrick waited so long (okay, a year) for another opportunity to tour with the band again, because they had a lot of the same fans, and he not-so-secretly loves Bob Bryar to bits (he's a drummer! and he likes jazz!), and Gerard Way is lovely company. Building up to it, the rest of the guys seemed genuinely excited as well, Andy for the awesome shows and Joe for the chance to hang out with Ray again. Pete was probably just excited to see the younger Way brother, Patrick figured, even if he wasn't as fond of him. It wasn't like Mikey Way had done anything to him, but he's pretty quiet and Patrick's pretty quiet so without Pete or alcohol things are always, well, pretty quiet. Patrick usually tries and find Bob or Gerard as quickly as possible in the times he is left alone with Mikey and his own unfortunate word vomit.

As the '06 summer tour kicks off, things are going perfectly according to plan. Everyone is fucking stoked. Both bands stop to pee and get snacks together, and Patrick says he feels like he's on a road trip, which Pete says he doesn't get, because they really are on a road trip, and Patrick ignores him. Bob even gives him a five-second-long bear hug when he first sees him at seven in the morning, and Bob is not a morning person, or a hug person. Patrick loves Bob.

The first show is phenomenal. Patrick is beaming after, along with everyone else, buzzing about backstage with all of his senses heightened. He feels amazing. The feeling resonates through his whole body like it's their first tour again. It's why when Pete declares a party in celebration Patrick doesn't even groan; not once. In fact, he fucking accepts the invitation (it helps Pete promised a movie marathon after). Pete's grinning at him so big that Patrick's heart tugs, and Patrick loves Pete, too.

So it goes that Patrick ends up at that party later. Bob was nowhere to be found at first, which seriously bummed him out, so he had returned to Pete and, the infamous and randomly appearing out of nowhere, Way brothers.

Mikey isn't drunk, so he nods at Patrick with a monotone 'hello', ignoring Pete's nuzzling of his neck quite skillfully. Patrick offers a little wave to both, and Gerard finally looks up from his phone when Mikey nudges him. His eyes light up when he sees Patrick, and they immediately engage in a conversation about music and comics, or something; it's hard to keep up with Gerard. Especially when he gets so excited that Patrick knows of Grant Morrison that he spills a little bit of his "water, definitely water; no alcohol for me, thanks" on his shirt.

Bob finally shows up, emerging from absolutely nowhere with a bundle of midget on his back. Frank, whom Patrick has met three times all-together, because they keep forgetting each others names, is pulling at Bob's hardly-existent hair and telling him all about how destroying his drums was part of his 'creative process' and Bob needed to 'stop pissing all over his Picasso', which is where Patrick sort of loses him. When Frank sees Gerard smiling up at him from the group, he practically jumps from Bob and latches on to the older boy, and Gerard's taken from Patrick pretty quickly. Pete ditches him to follow Mikey, and in turn Frank and Gerard. That's alright, though; Bob slides into his place, bumping his arm with his own, offering, "Hey, P-Trick. This party ain't your scene either?"

Bob pets his head affectionately, and Patrick wants it written in stone that Bob Bryar is the coolest guy to ever live. Touring with My Chemical Romance is the best.

_____________________________________________

Bob and Patrick make it through about another thirty minutes of group socialization, a shared beer, and exactly four and a half minutes of simply talking to one another before Frank is trudging back over to them with an indignant frown on his face.

"Fucking Gerard. He knows I hate being dragged into business-type conversations when we should be partying our asses off. Fucker," And then he pouts up at Bob, making grabby hands. Bob squats only a tad, and Frank hoists himself on his back first, then his shoulders with practiced ease and an elegant 'oof'. "Sometimes I miss when he got drunk and would lighten the fuck up."

"No, you don't." Bob sighs, and Frank nods his head in agreement, not acknowledging Patrick in the slightest. It's a few more seconds until Bob speaks up again, harshly poking Frank's foot with his hand. "Forgot your manners, Iero? We have a guest."

Frank's eyes flicker down to Patrick, this stupidly surprised look on his face. "Hi?" He offers. Patrick parrots it back at him, the same dumb tone and everything, and Frank snorts, leaning down enough to pat his head. Weirdly enough, Patrick doesn't feel patronized, because it's like when Bob does it and less like when Pete does it after Patrick asked him which hat makes his face look less fat (which is a reasonable ask, mind you). Silence falls over the group, but it's comfortable. And Bob's actually smiling, a tiny pull of the lips which has Patrick giddy and Frank poking his cheeks in disbelief.

When Frank starts pinching them and Bob starts punching him in return, Patrick looks away and back to the party. It's pretty packed and he's all too aware of his social anxiety creeping up on him. He finds Pete in exactly thirteen seconds, seemingly alone and bored, slumped up against the wall, which is really weird for Party Pete. If he's ever bored, he immediately finds someone to annoy, that someone usually being Patrick. But he's just frowning into his beer, and Patrick makes a hesitant step in his direction (debating dealing with the crowd just to see Pete normal again) when he sees Mikey return to his side, making Pete's face light up an unbelievable amount. Patrick feels a weird unsettling in his stomach when Pete leans over and places a wet kiss to the younger Way's neck, and he feels creepy just watching them. He's guessing their movie marathon night isn't going to happen. His eyes snap back over to Bob and Frank, who are engaging in a conversation Patrick can't focus in on. But he sees when Frank glances back in Gerard's supposed direction four times and hears him say, "You guys wanna ditch and play Guitar Hero back on our bus?"

Bob sends Patrick a pleading look, and a "hell yeah!" is leaving his lips before he even knew he'd actually processed the question.

_____________________________________________

"Bob Bryar, will you marry me?" Frank says in awe when Bob completes B.Y.O.B with a 98% accuracy rate on expert. Patrick is still too star-struck to speak. Bob is a drummer, what the fuck--

"No," Bob answers in monotone, refusing to humor him as per usual. "I'm too pretty for you."

Frank chokes on a unconvinced laugh and Bob snacks him with the Xbox guitar, soon handing it to Patrick. His startled eyes shoot to Frank's expectant ones, and it takes him twenty whole seconds to realize Bob isn't offering him a turn at 'Whack-The-Midget!'

"You want to play?" Bob asks, ignoring Patrick's awkwardness, which he's very thankful for. Seriously.

"I'm no good."

"You can't be worse than Frank."

"Hey! I--"

"Give it a shot?"

And Patrick can deny Bob Bryar exactly nothing. So he scrolls down the list until he finds - hell yes - Dammit by Blink. He hasn't played World Tour yet, and Frank chose Everlong (Foo Fighters), Bob obviously rocked out on both B.Y.O.B (System of a Down) and Livin' on a Prayer (the artist for that isn't even necessary), but he is chuffed to bits to see a song he knows on actual guitar.

Frank whoops when Patrick clicks green to begin the song, and he and Bob immediately start to discuss the lack of Travis Barker's genius in it and Mark's vocal performance on Dude Ranch when the game moves to the character page. Patrick chooses hard as his difficulty, even though he hasn't played Guitar Hero in a year. He won't be a wimp and choose medium, but he refuses to embarrass himself on expert.

"Who knew Patrick Stump had such a good music taste." Frank says thoughtfully as Patrick is placing his fingers over the coloured buttons like he would his own guitar, getting into the zone. "Didn't really take you for a Blink fan for some reason."

"Dude," Patrick snorted, vaguely aware the song was about to start and he needed to be focused, God, but Frank was cool and he was talking to him, so he'd be an idiot to ignore him (at least this way he'd have an excuse to fuck up). "Have you even listened to Fall Out Boy? Take This To Your Grave?"

"It's probably our jazz thing." Bob shrugs. Patrick stifles a happy, feminine shriek, and decides he really shouldn't get that excited over Bob's choice of 'our jazz thing'. Theirs. Cool. He's such a loser that it's unreal. He wipes the grin off his face when the song starts.

"It's definitely the jazz thing." Frank agrees, "I fucking love this song. Hey, Patrick, what's your favorite song off of Dude Ranch?"

Once again, his concentration is torn away and he fucks up a few notes, playing it off how normal, not-agonizingly-socially-inept humans would and acting as if it's no big deal. Because it isn't. He half-expects to be laughed at, but when he sends a side-ward glance, hitting green instead of red in the process, Frank isn't laughing. He's just smiling up at Patrick, patiently awaiting his answer, looking genuinely curious. It's hard for Patrick to remember My Chem are actual people, and not ridiculously awesome, god-like entities. And to remember they're people that sometimes want to talk to him, the biggest loser in the history of forever.

"Uh, I'm going with Josie."

"Dude, what?" Frank sounds unimpressed, and Patrick misses another note that he isn't paying attention to or cares about. "Enthused."

"Dick Lips." Bob offers distractedly, too busy intently drumming on his thigh.

"Of course you'd pick Dick Lips." Frank fires back, Bob punches him, and Patrick has a x4 by the end of the chorus. Things are pretty sweet. "What about Enema? Aliens Exist for me."

"Going Away To College." Bob replies, "Or Adam's Song."

"Ooh, I'd have to agree with Bob." He hits star power, and he doesn't miss a note. He doesn't do a dance, no matter how bad he wants to.

"What? Fuck both of you. Aliens Exist deserves to be everyone's favorite." Frank crosses his arms and pouts as he stands. "I'm getting a drink. Guys?"

Bob holds up his can in response.

"Patrick?"

"I'm good." Patrick throws over his shoulder when the second chorus dies down, but Frank's already gone.

"You're doing really good." Bob compliments.

Patrick doesn't answer until he's holding out the last note. "Thanks. It's definitely hard to get back into, though. It feels like haven't played Guitar Hero in decades."

"Impressive, then."

Patrick pulls the strap over his head and hands the guitar back to Bob. "What's impressive is you, man. Play me another?" He flutters his eyelashes in feigned flirtation, but inwardly hopes Bob won't perhaps, call him a faggot and kick his ass for it. (Even though he knew he wouldn't, he still valued their friendship a fuck-ton and couldn't help but be comfortable enough around him to act like an ass.)

He's more than relieved when Bob chuckles, shaking his head. "Whatever you want, Princess," The quick play screen flashes up. "Got a song in mind?"

Bob scrolls through the songs ("Just say when...") and Patrick stops him midway. "The Middle?"

"Jimmy Eat World it is. Good choice."

"I would've probably cried if you said otherwise. Seriously, Jimmy--"

"Fuck!"

The loud exclamation that comes from the front of the bus pauses Patrick mid-sentence. Bob doesn't even flinch, sending him a pointed look as if to say "Yes? Go on," but he's too busy craning his neck in the direction of the room the voice came from. It's definitely Frank's voice, and he sounds really distressed, but the way Bob handles it makes it seem like it's no big deal; Frank does it all the time. Patrick debates running in there to see if he's hurt, but he'd feel pretty stupid if Frank had just stumped his toe or they were out of beer, and he showed up with that super concerned look on his face (Pete said it was hilarious, so he made sure to make it appear on Patrick's face whenever possible). He gets that Pete-vibe from Frank, so he just waits for him to come back and explain, watching Bob fucking own in the meantime.

"I can't fucking believe this!" Frank shouts again, the anger in his voice evident this time, and then he's in the back room, seething at nothing in particular. "I cannot fucking believe this!"

"What?" Bob mumbles, unperturbed, either unaware of the fuming boy and the other one looking like a deer in headlights, or just not caring about it.

"Fucking-- Gerard!"

"Well, yeah, obviously." Bob jerks his guitar upward in the pause at the chorus, star power being activated and Patrick forgetting to be worried for two seconds as he made a mental note to later tell him how rad that looked. "You're using your 'Gerard-is-such-an-asshole' voice. What did he do this time? Insult Black Flag?"

And seriously, Patrick doesn't get how Bob's fucking with him right now. Sure, Bob's forty-times bigger than him, but Frank looks like he is out for blood. Perhaps Gerard's, but Patrick's sure Bob's would do, maybe. Or his own. Shit. He has never been in a fight like, ever.

"He left his phone here." Frank seethes, and Bob gets half-way through saying that's no reason to get so angry when he slams his fist into the wall beside him. Bob doesn't even fucking jump, but Patrick is sure his head hits the top of the bus. "He's getting texts from Bert. Texts he's been answering."

"Answering-- God, hold the fuck on; fucking hell." Bob pauses the game, tossing his guitar to the floor with an exasperated expression on his face and Patrick realizes he's the only thing between them. Fuck. "Take a fucking breath, Iero, sit your ass down, and calm your shit. You're scaring the living fuck out of Patrick."

Frank shoots him a look, and Patrick subconsciously puts his hands up to shield his face from the blows that will surely follow or something.

"Fucking chill, Stump. I'm not going to mess up your pretty face." Frank mutters, despite his face softening, as he sits next to him. Patrick takes a breath in relief, suddenly feeling really idiotic when he clears his throat, allowing his previous concern to return when Frank speaks again, "Just-- I feel dumb, because I'm surprised, you know? And I shouldn't be, because Gerard's been acting weird and distant again and I should've known it had something to do with fucking-- with fucking Bert."

Patrick looks at Bob in confusion when Frank spits the name like acid and balls his fists tight. "McCracken?"

"Yeah," Bob answers and Patrick's eyes widen at the fucking growl, no joke, that rips through Frank's throat, Jesus.

"I thought you? -- guys were, uh, friends?"

"No," Frank bites immediately, looking thoughtful before continuing, "He said Sugar, We're Going Down was the worst song ever written."

"What? Really?" Patrick finds himself a little hurt over the comment, before composing himself upon hearing Bob's laugh aimed towards them both. "Well, that's... I'm guessing that's not the reason you hate him, though..."

"That's why I hate him. Who insults a classic like Sugar?" Bob grins, picking his guitar back up and clicking play, leaving Patrick to finish what he started.

"Put it this way: he fucked with Gerard, bad. He's manipulative, destructive, worthless, disgusting, pathetic, sadistic scum. He is a literal piece of human garbage. Everything he says is complete and utter bullshit. He's a fucking snake. He's a fake and he's an asshole and I hate him."

"Oh," Patrick replies for lack of words, unsure if Frank left him any to use anyhow, the same time Bob says "And he hates Sugar, We're Going Down!", making himself laugh so hard he has to pause the game again.

Frank ignores Bob. "I hate him." He repeats, growing quiet. "Gerard hates him," He doesn't sound so sure.

Patrick desperately flails his hands in Bob's direction when Frank looks away, and he's just about to start up a speech about why Bert was being unfair, and maybe he should say was one of the worst songs (because hello, Limp Biscuit exists) just to have something to say when a buzzing in Frank's pocket saves the day.

"Hold on, man," Frank says, looking down at his phone and scowling. He types for a few minutes before erasing it, writing up a new message in a couple seconds and hitting send with too much force. "Fuck! Now he wants to fucking act all innocent and shit. Fuck that noise."

"Fuck that noise!" Bob repeats, finishing the song with a 99% accuracy rate and setting aside the controller. Fucking Bob. "I just realized I'm angry about Gerard talking to Bert, too, because I'm not even allowed to talk to the other the Used guys because of him."

"Yeah!" Frank shouts back, and Patrick blinks. Confused would be an understatement. "Like Quinn, because he hates my guts now! Like -- like Jepha!"

"Like Jepha!" Bob holds up his beer. "Let's get angry! Turn on Misfits, Black Sabbath, something. Get some whiskey!"

"Fuck yeah!" Frank responds, and then he looks down at Patrick (who blinks at him), looking more happy than angry in his opinion. "What are you angry about?"

"Uh, nothing?" Patrick squeaks, making Frank shake his head in a frantic back and forth motion, showing that simply won't do. "Pete ditched our movie night to hopelessly pine over Mikey?"

"Good one!" Bob nods. Frank sprints out of the room, coming back in seconds later with two bottles of Jack Daniel's in his hands.

"What a dicky thing to do!"

"I guess it was pretty dicky..."

Frank pushes one of the bottles into his hesitant hands.

"Super dicky!"

"Sounds like a gay superhero." Bob laughs.

"Fuck him!" Frank ignores him yet again.

"I don't think Patrick's looking for make-up sex at the moment..."

"Bob!"

"What?"

"You're an asshole!"

"It's because I'm angry inside."

"Hell yeah," Frank says, not shouts, back. Patrick almost forgot what his normal voice sounded like, but he doesn't know which he likes better. He's feeling pretty angry. He takes a swig of his drink, crinkling his nose in disgust, but forces himself to swallow while Frank turns on some Sabbath. "This song is my fucking jam."

"Good choice." Patrick says.

Beaming at him, Frank turns the bottle up before finally answering, "And your good taste in music never ceases to surprise me."

Gerard calls the second the song ends and changes to something by Nirvana. Or at least Patrick's pretty sure it's Gerard by the way Frank sneers at his phone before picking up and leaving the room. Bob watches him leave, and takes a swig himself. "Frank deals with being upset better when he's more happy-angry than sad-angry. Like 'let's burn shit!' and stuff, rather than self-loathing."

Patrick nods, mostly to the beat of the song, and then he thinks it over. He feels really mad, at Pete especially, and yet he doesn't feel bad. He feels, well, good. Euphoric, perhaps. Patrick loves Frank's coping mechanisms.

He hears "Don't play fucking dumb!" from the front of the bus.

"I think I do, too." He concludes aloud, and then Frank's stomping back in, eyes aflame.

"You know what, Gerard? Why don't you just get out of my fucking ass for a change? Or better yet, try keeping people out of yours. Fuck off."

Frank ends the call and throws the phone at the wall, but turns back around with a weird smile on his face. The moment he steals the whiskey from Bob's lap, Patrick receives a text from Pete. A surprising anger rises in his chest. The message reads 'where r u?'. He replies with a quick 'y dont u get out of my fuckin ass' before he can change his mind.

___________________________________

Patrick awakes disoriented and in pain. His head is throbbing, his ears ringing, and his body aches from the previous show. He moans in agony, not opening his eyes with his arms flailing around and searching for his ibuprofen. At first, he can't find it, or the bag he keeps it in. Instead he finds three notebooks he's never seen before poking into his side and a pencil digging in his thigh like it's looking for fucking China. There's balled up papers and trash and empty coffee cups and cigarette cartons in every direction. And when he opens his eyes fully, that definitely isn't his blanket. The Star Wars duvet that cocoons him, that is, Jesus. The photos of Gerard, Mikey, Ray, Frank, Bob, and several other people he doesn't know that line the bunk walls don't help. He's peering at one of Frank kissing Gerard's cheek drunkenly from years back when he realizes he isn't in his bunk.

He's totally planning on moving soon, and perhaps brushing his teeth or finding a headache cure when Frank's head is popping through the curtain with a beaming smile on his face. Patrick blinks.

"Advil?" He pulls the small bottle from out of the bunk to inside of it, jingling the colorful pills as if to taunt Patrick with it. It does quite the opposite, the sound sending sparks of pain shooting down his spine. He grabs his head, groaning, and Frank stops, sending an apologetic grin. "Sorry. There's water in the front of the bus and if you need to puke, we have a toilet. Just thought I'd let you know that we're at the venue. Isn't Gerard's bunk oddly comfy?"

"Yeah, it's pretty roomy and Star Wars blankets are always--" Patrick's eyes shoot open. "Fuck. What time is it?"

"Let's see," Frank says, picking up his phone. He's far too fucking chipper to be normal. Patrick knows he has to be hungover as fuck, and rather unhappy, last time he checked before he passed out. "It's eleven, in the morning."

"Fuck," Patrick repeats, slapping a hand over his face and ignoring the way it makes his brain pulsate. "The guys are going to be so pissed. We're supposed to practice in an hour, too."

"Cheer up, dude." Frank chirps, "They'll live, and you'll feel better in a bit. Want some coffee?"

"Man, why are you in such a good fucking mood?" Patrick shoves his face into the pillow. He inhales cigarettes and sweat. Charming. He mumbles into the pillow, "I know you got way more shitfaced than I did."

Frank shrugs. "I woke up too early and puked and felt better, and then I got to wake Bob up by sitting on him! Life couldn't be better."

"Okay," Patrick says, pulling his face up ruefully and nudging Frank a little so he can crawl out of his bunk - Gerard's bunk. The grinning boy obliges. "Did Bob punch you in the face?"

"The arm." Frank replies with too much enthusiasm. His lips curl up even more as he hands Patrick the bottle in his grasp.

Patrick sets the two pills in his mouth and clutches his stomach, watching his friend sprint past him into the front, tossing a water bottle at him - or his face - before he could even enter. He actually catches it (even he's impressed), thanks him, and Frank nods, sliding up onto the table to take a seat. "Where is everybody else?"

"Ray's in the venue, Mikey's laying in his bunk whilst reading and ignoring me, Bob is peeing, and Gerard is..." Frank trails off, scrunching his nose and scratching the side of his face in thought. "No one really knows. Except for Mikey, but like I said, ignoring me."

"Why?"

"Always does. It's a Mikey thing."

"Cool." It is kind of cool. Patrick swallows the pills, just in time for Frank to hand him a shiny red apple with - fuck yeah - a little sticker reading "Organic!" on the side. "I should be off, though..."

He pouts. "Now?"

"Got to face my fate, man."

Frank gasps in faked horror. "Before kissing Bob good morning?"

"Who's kissing me?" Bob is saying as he trudges in, and Frank is tackling him immediately.

"Me!" He sing-songs, and Patrick finds himself laughing when Frank's placing a big, sloppy kiss on the sluggish boy's cheek.

Bob grimaces. Frank isn't letting go. "Walked right into that one."

"You did. I was just telling Frank here that my bandmates are going to slaughter me if I don't get back right now."

"Before kissing me good morning?"

"Sorry--"

"That's what I said!" Frank interrupts.

"--but duty calls."

"By duty you mean Pete." Bob groans out, Frank sliding off of him enough to send him a raised eyebrow. "He's been calling since twelve last night, every fucking phone we own."

Patrick sighs. "Figured as much. Better face the devil, then. Speaking of phones...?"

"Yeah," Bob slides the phone off of the countertop and tosses it over, both ignoring the thinking faces Frank is making over by the coffee pot. That's never a good sign. "Good luck."

_____________________________________________

It's around eleven-thirty when Patrick slips only half of his body past the bus doors, hearing Andy say "Joe, that's not even legal to do at a zoo!" before directly walking right back out. Which is when he runs into Pete who is headed inside himself, and he's genuinely surprised he wasn't a part of that conversation. It sounds like something Pete would want to be a part of. But he's just looking all shocked for a second, like he's unaware of who Patrick is, and then glaring, like he unfortunately knows who Patrick is.

"What the fuck, dude?"

And Patrick is skillfully avoiding the subject, saying, "Practice?"

Pete has known Patrick for a very long time. "Post-poned. Because you weren't on the fucking bus. Again, what the fuck, dude?"

Patrick feels a little bad. Only a little. "Sorry. Passed out on My Chem's bus."

"Yeah, I know." Pete rolls his eyes, "Their driver told our driver, because, you know, you didn't tell anyone yourself."

"Cool?" Then Pete is punching him, ow, in the shoulder.

"Get out of your ass?" Pete fumes.

"It was a joke, man."

"No it wasn't, Patrick." Pete literally stomps his foot. Pete is literally four years old.

"Seriously--"

"No!"

"Fine, okay?" Patrick hisses and pushes his best friend back with, really, little to no force, but Pete still stumbles, looking ridiculously hurt and surprised. "I was pissed at you."

"For fucking what?"

"You--!" And that's all Patrick says, because that's when he really remembers why, and saying 'You ditched our movie night to pine over Mikey Way!' doesn't sound that important anymore. So, he feels like a tool.

"I fucking what?" It comes out as a really exasperated statement more than a question. Patrick nearly gnaws his own lip off when Pete's face falls from angry to defeated and he's gripping his shoulders and pleading, "Tell me. I need to know how to make it better. God, you know I fucking hate it when I have no idea what I did wrong, especially when it comes to my best fucking friend telling me to fuck off, Patrick."

"God, Pete," Patrick says after a beat and pushes him off. He pointedly does not look at his face in the process. "It's really dumb and--"

"Tell me."

"It's dumb!" Patrick says, almost in realization, and then huffs, he can't fucking say that. He's muttering out, "You, youdraggedmetothatpartyandfuckingabandonedmetohangoutwithyourfriends." He says nothing of movie nights and Mikey Way, but Pete's eyes still bulge inanely.

"Dude, no, you ditched me, okay? You--"

"Whatever, Pete. Don't want to argue about it." Patrick spins around and stalks on the bus, knowing exactly who trails behind. That's why he's surprised when Pete's voice is far away when he responds, "Neither do I."

Patrick doesn't turn around, though. He just rolls his eyes in a melodramatic manner and storms past the front (including a concerned Andy and a confused Joe) straight to his bunk. Practice doesn't start until later, and he's going to take a power nap, god dammit.

He's only vaguely aware of Pete stomping in behind him when he jerks the curtain of the bunk open, maybe to make a statement of disapproval and exhaustion or something. But hi, his bunk isn't empty. The inhabitant is breathing smooth and slow and slightly snoring, pointy nose tucked into his pillow, his blanket jerked up and held around its chin. It takes three seconds for Patrick's eyes to adjust and comprehend.

"Gerard Way's in my bunk." Patrick states, and someone is playing an alternate-universe prank on him, all 'if you could switch bands for a day', he decides when Gerard Way is blinking awake and staring up at him cross-eyed and sleep-drunk.

"Oh yeah. Gerard's in your bunk." Pete says nonchalantly, sliding up next to him. Gerard is still looking at Patrick like he has four heads. "He didn't have anywhere to go last night so I told him to crash here and we just had a movie marathon."

"A movie marathon?" Patrick's eyes practically pop out of his head when he turns back to Pete, who looks sort of bored.

Gerard croaks, "Morning? What? Coffee?"

They ignore him.

"A movie marathon." Patrick says again, and Pete raises an eyebrow. "With Gerard Way."

"Yeah?"

He pauses, thinking it over. "Didn't know you guys were friends..."

"Well we are," Pete sneers the same time Gerard says, "God, I need some fucking coffee."

Patrick swallows. "Cool."

"Cool?"

"Cool." It's not cool. He turns to Gerard just to avoid Pete's intense bitchface. "I think Andy made some."

"Let's go get some, Mr. Way." Pete offers. Gerard nods, oblivious to the tension as Pete's lips tug into a smirk directed toward Patrick.

Patrick doesn't wait for Gerard to get up before he's storming off the bus and refusing to acknowledge the stinging in his eyes - and seriously, what? He's getting teary-eyed. Over Pete's movie marathons. With Gerard fucking Way.

______________________________

The temperature drastically changes from eleven to twelve. The sun is high in the sky, scorching down on the horribly unfortunate, and Patrick just happens to be one of many. He doesn't even remember which state they're in. He's sitting right outside of the venue and he could ask someone, of course, but he realizes he doesn't care. He's still wondering which movies Pete and Gerard fucking Way watched the night before.

Though he's not upset, he tells himself when a stagehand is smiling down at him and he's frowning back. Except he totally is, and it kind of hurts trying to gather up a polite smile to send back, but he gets one in before the guy can leave and plot his revenge to throw a mic stand at the asshole lead singer later. So he's upset. He's really upset.

Despite his intense moping (which he seriously didn't know he could brood this hard, he's sort of impressed) he feels that he has a reason to be indignant. He's just not sure of that reason. The inane part is he's currently torn between the fact he feels replaced by Pete or he's jealous Pete's friends with Gerard now (Mikey is his Way, Gerard's is Patrick's and Pete cannot have them both), leaving him in the dust. It's almost like he feels replaced by everybody, and that? - sucks.

On the other hand, he's half-enjoying his sulking. Pete tells him a lot that he never lets himself just be not alright without trying to fix it immediately, and that it is unhealthy to do so. Pete would be very proud.

Still, he can't stop thinking about what Bob and Frank might be doing that's so much cooler than this. It's really fucking hot, and he bets they're in their air-conditioned bus playing super awesome video games and being not sad over fucking movie marathons with the emo twins, and that beats the hell out of heat, brooding, and being very sad over movie marathons with the emo twins. (They probably discussed Morrissey and apathy and did each others eyeliner, he thinks jokingly, but it doesn't make him feel any better, really.)

Patrick sighs, hooking his fingers in his belt loops and tugging up when he stands so they won't fall down. He would be ecstatic, being that it means he's losing weight, but hello, brooding. You're not allowed to be ecstatic about anything. That's rule number one. Instead, he chooses to acknowledge that he'll have to buy new pants soon and that does the trick. Pete will want to help pick them out, try to get him to put on skinny jeans, and Patrick will be the bad guy if he punches him in the face. His life completely sucks.

He walks until he finds a bench closer to the venue doors, and he listens to the music playing from inside. His foot taps along rhythmically. It's recognizably Red Hot Chili Peppers. At least he's sulking to good music. It's like high school all over again.

The day grows warmer, which Patrick didn't even know was possible, humid and annoying. Clouds form overhead ominously and he doesn't fight off a groan. He feels better after, so he groans again. And again, for good measure.

"I feel you," Someone is saying from behind him, and Patrick isn't even startled. That's how apathetic he is in his resentment. Awards should be thrown at his feet. "Days like this deserve a good groan."

It's just Frank, anyways.

"Yeah," is all Patrick says in return. He doesn't even look over when Frank sits to his right, directly on the creaky wooden bench's top. It squeaks in protest.

"I'm going to break this thing with my fat ass." He pats it, nearly apologetically. "You'd think this nice of a venue could afford better seating. You know, accommodate to our rock star needs."

"Yeah." Patrick says, "Sucks."

"It's fucking muggy out here, dude. I'm sweating bullets." Frank makes a whooshing sound to prove his point. "Gerard would like that saying, like the terminology? - sweating bullets. But it's seriously gross out here. I feel like I can't even breathe or I'll, like, drown."

"Yeah, it s--"

"Sucks. I got it." Patrick can practically hear him roll his eyes. He definitely does hear some shuffling and then a flick of a lighter, and when he's leaning down into his personal space all, "Want one?"

"I don't smoke." Patrick admits and glances at Frank, who isn't looking at him like he's immature and stupid and totally lame, like he'd kind of grown to expect. "I sing, so, got to keep my lungs healthy and happy?"

"Gerard should probably quit. Though he's like, super-human. Nothing gets to him or his pipes." Frank shuts an eye on the inhale, visibly shivering and obviously so desperately trying to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. It still looks really bad-ass, though. Patrick thinks he should start smoking. "He wouldn't quit if his life depended on it, though. He loves Reds more than his own family."

"Reds?" Patrick questions.

"Malboro Reds." Frank squints, offering a wide, apologetic smile that's in no way condescending and Patrick forgets to be embarrassed about his lack of cigarette knowledge. Shaking the little pack of death - which, okay, maybe Patrick also doesn't smoke because he's terrified of black lungs, but whatever (he briefly jokes inside his own head that's probably why Gerard smokes, that poetically emo shit) - he points in the general direction of the name. "Best of the best. If you're going to get lung cancer, do it right."

Patrick nods. Frank makes smoking seem really alluring and cool. He says, "Cool."

"Not really," Frank admits shyly, almost ashamed, but then his demeanor is shifting drastically again, back to unreasonably chipper (even when he complains, okay, which doesn't even make sense). Patrick can't keep up, it seems. "So why are you brooding out here all alone?"

Patrick looks away, trying not to breathe in the smoke that has began to blow in his direction. Second-hand smoke is a thing, and it's a thing he's not into. Frank grunts in disapproval and he stands determined on the bench, sparing him from the killer smoke. Patrick loves Frank and people like Frank, he thinks.

"Not brooding," He lies through his teeth, waving a hand all over the place as if he's actually waving the question away, into the hot summer air and right out of their vicinity. "Just tired."

"You're totally brooding. You're a brooding, cranky, bad liar." Frank's impassive and so over everything. He'd be a good brooder, Patrick thinks.

"Brooding." Patrick says simply, because he likes the word.

"Brooding." Frank giggles, "Reminds me of brutal. Brutal brooding, bro."

"What are you even talking about?" Patrick says mid-Frank-pot-giggle.

"Your mom, Stump."

"You are ten. Congratulations."

"And proud!" Frank grins, and then he's tossing his sucked-dry cigarette on the ground (Patrick doesn't stomp on it for him, because that's rude, right?) and all-but throwing himself down beside him, the demeanor-shift happening again when he says, "I admit, I'm totally brooding, too."

"Brooding," Patrick says one last time before he turns to look at Frank seriously, "You're bad at it." He isn't a good brooder, as it turns out.

Frank grins at him in response. Patrick's cheeks hurt just looking at him.

"What are you miserably ruminating over anyways?"

Frank's grin sort of falters, and the pain in Patrick's cheeks pricks at his heart, because he's apparently a fucking pre-teen girl today and everything is getting to him. Awesome. "It's dumb."

"It can't be more ridiculous than my reason." Patrick says, honestly.

Frank cocks a brow. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

"You first?"

"You suck." He scoffs. The bench moans as he stands up again, pulling out another cigarette. Patrick has to crane his neck to look at him, not even fighting his curiosity when he clears his throat. "Gerard won't so much as look at me. I don't even remember what I said to him last night--"

("You told him to get out of your ass or to better yet, keep people out of his own?", Patrick thinks, but he doesn't say it.)

"--because getting drunk gives me the worst memory, but anyways, apparently it makes me Satan, because Gerard keeps stomping around all silent and emo, and Mikey stealthily kicked me in the shin three times. Even Ray's fro was seriously drooping all morning. I don't even remember why I was so mad. This is mutiny shit. I don't even think Bob is on my side; he keeps ignoring my existence."

"Oh captain, my captain," Patrick mutters under his breath, and he thinks about refreshing his memory on the Bert thing, but decides against it. "Bob always ignores your existence, though."

"Shh, Patrick. Let me wallow in peace." Frank lays a limp hand over his eyes with a melodramatic sigh. "Everyone hates me."

The sun shines rudely in Patrick's eyes when he tries to look up again, and he frowns and says, "Sun is dumb."

Frank doesn't reply. He only tosses the pair of sunglasses that were previously on his head at the apparent vampire seated below him. That alone gives him seven coolness points in Patrick's book, despite the fact that they are a wide, white-rimmed pair from the women's section at Walmart. Minus two. Unless he's trying to prove some equality between sexes point, then that adds four. Patrick glances down to Frank's incredibly pink converse momentarily. Definitely plus four. Eleven points added to his original score of five million. He puts on the sunglasses.

"There," Frank starts, "Now you can stare up at my pretty face without getting second-hand lung cancer or making your eyes melt out of their sockets, harshing those precious pipes and that 20/20 vision."

"I wear glasses," Patrick says, but then he thinks, and adds, "That would actually be pretty cool."

"Fucker," Frank replies, but he's grinning anyway, "I think I actually saw it on a movie once. Your turn."

He doesn't fight off a groan.

"You promised!"

"Fine!" Patrick looks away, only catching the cigarette hitting the ground out of the corner of his eyes. He doesn't stomp it this time either. Self-control is his bitch. "You know how I was mad at Pete last night or whatever?"

"Sure," Frank says like he totally doesn't, but is plopping down beside Patrick in seconds. Patrick spares him a glance to see if he's still all smug and grinning, but instead his mouth is a straight line. He doesn't look disinterested, though; he looks quite the opposite. Like he really wants to hear what Patrick has to say, but he chalks it off on Frank liking to gossip or something. Like fucking Pete, God.

"I was a prick to him because he ditched me last night to chill with Mikey, and it's stupid, because we were supposed to have a movie marathon and..." Patrick trails off, slapping a hand against his cheek spitefully. "Fuck, man, it's so stupid now that I say it out loud."

"Wait, wait: a movie marathon?" Frank's eyes grow wide, like Patrick just told him Pete deflowered puppies for fun. "That's, like, one of the seven deadly sins. You don't cancel that shit without explanation. Did he apologize?"

Patrick grimaces on the outside, but inside he's appreciative of Frank being genuinely awesome and not calling him a fag. His cheek burns slightly, either from the slap or the sun. "Not really. I didn't tell him. But when I got back this morning he jumped down my throat so I went to take a nap and Gerard was in my bunk sleeping off post-emo-twin-movie-night bliss, okay?"

Frank blinks. "Gerard? Wrong Way."

"Right Way."

"No way!"

"Hey, hey!" Ray Toro is saying as he approaches.

Frank raises a brow at Patrick, then Ray, grinning. "Wrong Way. Right, Ray?"

"Wait, which Way?"

"Mikey Way," Frank says the same time Patrick says, "Gerard."

"Both Ways?"

Ray and Frank snicker.

"One Way."

Ray grins. "O-Kay."

"Oh my god," Patrick says.

"Gonna play?" Frank points to the acoustic guitar in Ray's hands, then to the building behind him.

Patrick groans when Ray squeaks out a shrill giggle.

"Uh," he thinks for a moment, then he's smiling, "All day!"

The two burst into fits of giggles and Patrick is totally not hiding his chuckles behind a palm. He is surrounded by ten-year-olds, seriously. "I am surrounded by ten-year-olds."

Ray tries to stop laughing and Frank just beams at him. "I'm a solid eleven, okay." Patrick doesn't agree.

"So guys," Ray starts once the laughter is suppressed, "What are you two up to?"

"Brooding," Frank says, but he's smiling, and Ray makes the same face Patrick did. "You're not good at it. But Patrick is."

"I know right! He should get a brooding award or something. Best Brooder Award."

"The Emmy of Emos," Ray snorts.

Frank promptly gives him a high five. Patrick repeats, "Oh my god,"

"How about you, Torosaurus?"

"Roaring about, destroying cities, the usual. I'm also about to go acoustic jam with Joe and Mikes. Want to join?"

"I'm having a therapy session with Mr. Stump here, actually."

Ray cocks an amused brow at Patrick, who remains silent. "You're letting him council you?"

"Hardly by my choice." Patrick shrugs. Directly after, Frank says, "And how does that make you feel?"

"Hungry," says Patrick, honestly,

"Bored," groans Ray. His mouth twitches up at the corners, rivaling his words. "Think I'll leave you two be then. Don't let Frank overcharge."

"He pays me in love."

Ray makes a face, thankfully not noticing the flush of Patrick's cheeks, or maybe writing it off as the heat. Patrick isn't a prude, alright, against popular opinion. Or Pete's popular opinion. He's just reserved, modest, and okay, easily embarrassed. "On that note, I leave you to, uh, 'it', huh," Ray sniggers, flashing Frank a mischievous look. "Good day!"

Frank sends it back. "Can't stay?"

"No way."

"Sucks, Ray."

"I'd say."

They send him expectant smiles.

"Fucking dorks, I swear to God," Patrick mutters, half-heartedly, "Go away."

The two turn to him, content. "Finally," They say at the exact same time, and Patrick doesn't even fight the eye-roll that follows.

"Bye guys. Have fun with your whatever." Ray waves to them. His fro bounces with every step he takes. It's awesome.

"So," Frank begins, dragging out the word to get Patrick's attention, which is still on Ray's majestic mane. His eyes snap over to meet Frank's. "Gee? Pete? Emo movie nights?"

"Right." He pulls up his shades - to be cool or something, he doesn't know - winces at the sunlight, then immediately pulls them back down. "So I go back to the bus and Gerard is like, sleeping in my bunk. And when I asked Pete why, he tells me they had some movie marathon."

Frank looks unconvinced. "Gerard and Pete?"

"Yeah, believe it or not. How does their friendship even work?"

"Seriously," Frank agrees. Frank really agrees. "Like, what? Gerard and Pete? That doesn't even make any sense!"

"They should hate each other!"

"Right? Gerard is a fucking diva introvert who reads and draws with his black gothic thundercloud over his head all the time! And Pete is, well --"

Patrick shrugs, says, "Pete is Pete."

"Exactly!" Frank flaps his hands around - Patrick mentally flaps right back - desperately attempting to get across how weird it is. "In fact, I thought Gerard did hate Pete!" He says suddenly, and then he gets on his thinking face. "He was just complaining about him the start of tour - how he was annoying and wouldn't leave Mikey alone or something. It's-- it doesn't - !"

Frank's still flapping about, as if he's trying to find the words, and maybe they're hiding in his shirt sleeve.

"It doesn't make any sense." Patrick supplies, and Frank's expression goes from bad urgency to good urgency, and he points and eagerly snaps his fingers.

"Exactly! It makes me feel all weird inside."

"Like, uncomfortable, or upset, right?"

The good urgency returns.

"E-fucking-xactly. You get me, P-Stump." He sighs, and then he's throwing an arm over his shoulder loosely, but somehow still comforting. "That must be why you're brooding."

"Nail on the head."

"I don't like it," Frank nearly spits, arm tightening around Patrick. Patrick doesn't either so he leans into the touch. "They're not even slightly compatible. They're polar opposites. I'm getting that feeling that something bad's going to happen, Patrick."

Patrick is too, so when Frank makes a little noise in the back of his throat and lays his head on his shoulder, smelling like cigarettes and sweat and something suspiciously like the cologne Pete wears, he leans into the touch.

_____________________________

Shows have a way of bringing everyone back together. Pete finally spoke to Patrick when the kids filed in, saying, "A lot of kids, huh?" and Patrick nodded. He wasn't sure where Pete had even came from (he was sort of hiding away), but he didn't sound angry, and maybe Patrick didn't feel all that angry either. The kids had that effect. Pete threw his arm around him and gave him a friendly side-hug, and they were okay.

My Chemical Romance were on before them, and Pete and Patrick watched side-stage, surprisingly silent. When the band came off, Gerard hi-fived Patrick and bumped shoulders with Pete (he definitely didn't stop to think about what that meant, like: what's more friendly - a shoulder-bump or a hi-five?) and accepted a little hug from Joe and a nod from Andy. Frank bolted into Patrick's arms directly after, squeezed the life out of him, and then did the same to Gerard. Mikey genuinely smiled (woah) at all of them and Ray gave a round of his own squeezes. Bob came off last, and wiped the sweat off his hand before patting Patrick's head.

They were due on in less than a minute when Gerard had grabbed his hand and smiled all lop-sided and uneasy and mouthed "good luck". He didn't really know why he felt so inclined to respond, "you, too", but he didn't say it regardless.

He's waltzing off the stage when Frank latches onto him again. It takes him about three minutes to realize Patrick's not that much taller than him, and therefore too short to be his horse for the evening. Bob peels him off, handing Patrick a beer like the big blonde savior he is.

The trio meet everyone backstage and Frank throws himself from Bob to Gerard, pushing Mikey just enough to fit in between the Waybros. It works, because Frank's small, Gerard's happy, and Mikey's apathetic, or perhaps just pleased Pete is bothering a different Way.

There is one spot left on that particular couch, the end seat beside Pete who is, unsettlingly, beside Gerard. It is in fact getting even more so like high school because now Patrick just can't bring himself to sit there and interrupt everyone's love-fest to assert himself into the fun, and in turn, most likely ruin it.

"Hey, Patrick," Ray calls from across the room, a genuinely excited look on his face. He's exuberantly huddled up with Bob and Joe by the door, and it's enough to force Patrick out of his mental debate. "Come here for a second!"

After sending a fleeting look to the empty spot, he complies, and soon he's mixed into the middle with Ray all in his face looking earnest and shit. The other two are wearing matching shit-eating grins. Patrick counts that as one serious red flag.

"Hey, man, can I ask you a question?"

Joe and Bob laugh, which is the second red flag. Patrick fully resists them temptation of responding with "you just did" to be a smart ass, mostly because he doesn't want to go to hell, but also a bit because Ray is such a good human. He instead nods.

"Cool," Ray says, and then shoots the other guys a warning look. "If I was an animal, what kind of animal would I be?"

Bob snorts. Joe grins open and wide. Patrick raises a brow. Ray twiddles his thumbs like it's even remotely serious.

"I don't know, man. I'm thinking..." Patrick trails off, and he's seriously thinking, "A big, fluffy sheepdog, or something."

Ray's face brightens like Patrick just told him he won the lottery. He's saying, "yes!", the same time Bob's saying, "dude, what?"

"Come on," Joe rolls his eyes, "Ray is a straight monkey-man."

"Seriously!" Bob agrees.

Ray crosses his arms and pouts at them. "Am not, assholes."

Maybe it isn't Patrick's most shimmery-shiny moment when he looks at Ray, really looks at him, tilts his head, and says, "Huh." But Bob still laughs really hard, so it almost feels that way.

"Huh?" Ray's mollified, his shrill voice really trying to get his resentment across, but it falls short when he cracks a little smile at Patrick's horrified face. "Too much Frank for you, Patrick. I thought you of all people would be Mr. Nice Guy."

"Niceties ain't got shit to do with this, Toro. Patrick's just preaching the truth. You look like a serious gorilla, dude."

"Not in the bad way!" Patrick assures desperately, and then literally smacks himself in the face.

"Fuck all of you!" Ray laughs.

Joe pats Patrick's arm, all, "I got your back, buddy". "Yeah, Ray. King Kong is pretty sexy."

Ray whacks Joe across the back of his head, and Joe retaliates with a headlock. Bob just watches, looking as amused as Patrick feels.

Bob says to Patrick, "Come on. He could've said 2-D and it would've been an actual compliment. Am I right?"

Patrick is seriously considering that demanding his manager to not let them tour with anyone else but My Chemical Romance is a good idea when he looks back to the couch - just in time to have a front row seat when Rome fucking falls.

The first thing he sees is Frank draped over Gerard, sing-songing, "Who're you texting?" Gerard doesn't seem to be humored, and keeps pushing at Frank's chest, ordering him to get off.

"Come on, Gee, you've been on that thing all night." Frank whines. "Who could you possibly be..."

Patrick really liked Rome how it was before.

Frank stops, and then his face washes over with this realization. Patrick distinctly sees his fists clench and then Frank screams, "Fuck you!" right in Gerard's face, storming out of the room.

Once the door is slammed, the room goes completely quiet. Gerard appears more shell-shocked than upset, but Mikey still drapes a protective arm around him and scoots over to where Frank was sitting. Pete is looking more interested than anything, and Patrick just feels kind of sick, especially when he definitely catches Gerard's lip quiver.

"What the fuck?" Bob deadpans, staring distractedly at Gerard. Fall Out Boy stay quietly surprised.

"Seriously," Ray squeaks.

Seriously, Patrick thinks, and he promptly stands and exits the room after Frank, not missing the glances and/or glares he receives in return.

He doesn't think about it. He just starts walking around back stage, checking in every door, and Frank isn't in any of them. Patrick keeps walking until he sees the door leading to the patio on the backside, and then he thinks, chain-smoking.

He's right. He finds Frank out there leaning against the wall with a half-smoked cigarette in his hand. He's squinting at it, watching the tobacco leaves burn, next taking a drag and repeating the process.

"Hey," Patrick says. Frank doesn't jump or anything. He obviously saw him coming.

"You're a really great guy, Patrick Stump." Frank starts, and Patrick recognizes the tone as the ones girls use when they say "you're really nice, but I'm not looking for a serious relationship right now", sometimes directly before trying to stick their tongue down Pete's throat. It's happened a lot. "But to be honest, I'm in no mood to be consoled."

"You sound like those girls that turned me down in high school." Patrick blurts without thinking, and he's going to call himself an idiot and go back inside before he sees Frank crack a small, sheltered grin. "Look, you have a great personality," Patrick recites instead.

Frank snorts. "You're just like a brother to me."

"Ouch. Too familiar. I've had girls say that to me after we've made out, dude. Fucked up stuff."

Frank full-on smiles for about two seconds, and then it drops completely, suddenly. He takes another drag while Patrick stuffs his hands into his pockets, just to stop the shaking. It's not even cold, but his insides feel chilly, or something. He'll definitely tell Pete that later. He'd probably understand, or at least turn it into cool lyrics.

"Stop making me smile while I'm brooding, douche." Frank spits, but it lacks venom on all sorts of levels.

"You can't brood twice in one day. It's unhealthy for--"

"Fuck that. He's talking to Bert, man. That's what I was so pissed off about."

Patrick exhales, saying, "I know."

"You didn't tell me."

"I'm sorry. Just thought it would make things worse, hearing it from me, you know?"

"Yeah," Frank uses his cigarette-less hand to desperately scrub at his face. "But to think I spent all day feeling guilty for making him upset, and he let me. He's talking to fucking Bert. He deserves my foot up his ass. Or like, Bob's. Bob has a huge fucking foot. I can't even believe I got black-out drunk and forgot that, like, how do you forget something like that?"

Patrick frowns. "Do you know what they're talking about?"

"No, I never saw. I just, remembered, I guess, when I saw him on his phone."

Patrick's still really confused on the Bert thing, but he's pretty sure he and Gerard weren't just best friend's who fell out, and he's pretty sure that's jealously that's putting the malice behind Frank's words. "Maybe it's innocent--"

"Doesn't matter. He still said he was fucking done with him. Now they're buddy-buddy again? Fuck that. The Bert McFucker chapter of my life was supposed to be finished, dead and gone."

Patrick sighs, because he's really bad at these things, and Frank's lighting another cigarette. Since Frank's a cool guy, and he doesn't want him to get lung cancer, he figures he should do a better job. "You should talk to him and get his side of the story."

"I don't want his side of the fucking--"

"Listen, Frank," Patrick sends him a warning look, "The longer this stretches out, the worse you'll feel. You just need to tell him he's an idiot, maybe, but in a nice way. If you want him to stop talking to Bert, yelling fuck you in his face and storming out of rooms to chain-smoke is not the way to go. You'd be surprised how far communication can stretch. You don't want this to screw with the band, do you?"

Frank face softens a considerable amount. "Of course not," he says, which is something, and Patrick can work with that.

"Of course not. So try, for your band, who're currently in there trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. And we both know Gerard feels the same way about the band. He'll choose you guys over anything. It's in all of your best interest to just work through this," Patrick smirks slightly, pointing at the cigarette. "Plus, the way you're going now I'm not sure whether you'll die from lung cancer first or Mikey will poison you."

"Fucking Waybros." Frank puts out his cigarette, and he's smiling a little. "Got to hand it to Mikey. He's all skin and bone, but he's intimidating as fuck if you mess with Gerard."

"I never want to find out." Patrick grimaces. "Let's go inside."

Frank nods, and starts to join him on the patio. But before Patrick can turn to go back into the building, Frank pulls him in for a quick hug. He says thanks, Patrick says you're welcome, and they both mean it as they head back.

The air is tense and awkward when they return. Everyone has left except for Bob, Ray, and Pete, who're eyeing them suspiciously when they walk in.

"So?" Ray says, arms crossed as he impatiently taps his foot. His expression is torn between annoyance and apprehension. Pete just seems curious, and Bob looks as if he figured it out on his own.

"Sorry," Frank shrugs, like he is apologizing for being five minutes late or something. "Minor freak-out. Where's Gerard?"

"Gone." Bob sighs, "Everyone's decided on calling it an early night. Can't believe it's only the second day of tour and everyone's already down each other's throats."

"Bob," Patrick doesn't even register he's the one that said it until Bob sends an apologetic frown.

"That's not fair." Frank says, scratching at his arm absent-mindedly. "This has nothing to do with tour and you know it."

"Then what's it got to do with?" Ray demands, his arms tightening around himself. "What's going on, Frank?"

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing!"

Ray is totally band dad. He keeps spirits high and attention focused, and he fucking loathes not being aware of what's going on. Patrick knows that. He makes a helpless noise. "Ray, I'm sure if Frank and Gerard just talk this out..."

Ray laughs sarcastically, the edge of bitterness directed toward Patrick. "I want to know why the fuck everyone seems to know what's going on except for me."

"I don't either." Pete points out, earning a side-ways glare from Bob.

"I'm going to go talk to Gerard. I'll tell you guys later, okay?"

"Fine," Ray shakes his head, shoulders drooping in defeat as he steps forward to ruffle Frank's hair. "Just... be gentle? He looked pretty bummed by your last approach."

"Gotcha." Frank tries for a smile, but it comes out sort of cross. He sends a wave over his shoulder as he leaves the room, headed for the buses, and all heads turn to Patrick, eyes filled with hopefulness.

Patrick gracefully says, "fuck no, staying out of it", and proceeds to walk to his bus. An early night sounds awesome. He's in his bunk pretending to sleep before Pete can even think about pestering him.