More Bandom Future!Fic
Title: Snapshots From a Possible Future [Parts 6-8]
Author: tigs
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't know or own.
Author's Notes: Previous bits can be found here. Many thanks to amy13 for the look over!
6. The Show
The first Patrick knows of the plan to kidnap him, he hears the door to the sound booth opening, then Ryan Ross saying, "See, I told you he'd still fucking be here."
Patrick's spinning in his chair even as Ryan speaks, so he sees the grin that Spencer gives the other man as he asks, "Did I say I didn't believe you? I never said I didn't believe you." He turns his attention towards Patrick then, his grin, impossibly, widening even more. "Hi," he says, "we're here to kidnap you," and as Patrick asks, "Oh, really?" Spencer continues, "If you have time, that is. If we aren't, like, derailing some group's next number one hit."
Patrick stares at them for a moment, thinking, unsure of what to say.
He could say yes, they were interrupting, because he's got three different songs queued up on the board right now-maybe not number one hit singles, but something. He's got prep work to do before the new group, Last Bastion of Sanity, comes into the studio on Monday: ideas to prepare, studio musicians to schedule, figuring out what instruments are needed what day.
Ryan's watching him like Pete does, though, like he knows what excuses are trying to form in Patrick's head, and he says, "One of Spencer's protégés is playing a show tonight at The Gateway, so of course he decided he needs backup so that he doesn't have to face the mass of screaming teenage girls by himself. Because he's a wimpfff-"
Spencer claps a hand over Ryan's mouth as he says, "The Aqua Angels are playing-" He turns to look at Ryan halfway through the sentence, making a face before pulling his hand away and wiping it on his jeans. Ryan just grins serenely as Spencer turns his attention back to Patrick and says, "-and I thought you might be interested in seeing them since, you know, you sat in on Kevin's lesson that one time."
He looks hopeful, but understanding, too, and Patrick can still say no, knows that if he does, Spencer and Ryan will leave and he'll have the rest of the evening to himself, as he'd planned. He probably should say no, he thinks, because he's already got plans to leave early to go down to Frank's next Thursday and demos he's promised to get to people sooner rather than later, preferably before he starts in with Last Bastion, but-
-but it's not like his social life is so packed that he won't have tomorrow night, Saturday, Sunday, to get the work done.
Besides, he thinks, a night out would probably do him some good. He can almost hear Pete's voice in his head saying, 'All work and no play makes Patrick a dull little fuck,' and as he smiles at that thought, he says, "Yeah, no. That'd be, yeah. Let me just, you know, save things here and then I'll be ready to-"
Ryan nods, looking satisfied, like Patrick's made the only acceptable choice, as far as he's concerned, but Spencer, he practically fucking beams.
*
They take Ryan's car, Spencer sitting shotgun, and the drive only takes about half an hour. It's late enough that Patrick knows the opener must already be at least halfway through their set, but when they drive by the venue there's still a crowd of people hanging around out front, there are still minivans pulled up outside, parents dropping teenagers off.
"There's a reason Spence wanted the backup," Ryan says to Patrick as they turn a corner, seeming to know what Patrick's thinking-namely, that he's suddenly feeling really fucking old. Fucking minivans. "You'd also think I'd know better, after last time-"
"Last time was not that bad," Spencer protests.
"-when he dragged me all the way down to fucking San Diego, to the beach, where there was sand, Stump, and a crowd of kids who looked like they'd left their surf boards outside-"
"They're a surfer punk band," Spencer says. "What did you expect?"
"Sand, Spencer. In my shoes," Ryan says, and he's suddenly laughing in a way that Patrick's rarely seen him laugh before-not around people who aren't in his band anyway.
"And you call me a wimp." Spencer shakes his head, and then Ryan's pulling the car into a space around behind the venue and they're all getting out. The night air is still warm and a little sticky, the mid-September heat wave hasn't yet faded away, and Patrick pushes the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows as they walk towards the front door.
In the time it took them to park, a good portion of the kids have gone inside, but there are still some huddled by the corner, smoking their last cigarette before heading through the doors. Patrick keeps his head down, his hat pulled low over his face, but it's not like he expects any of the kids to recognize him-they mostly don't nowadays-and Spencer and Ryan don't seem to be worrying about it either.
Then Spencer's stepping up to the door and saying, "Spencer Smith. We're on the list."
The ticket man, a big burly guy with tattoos winding around his arms, looks as if he wants to smirk-Patrick in his trucker's hat, Spencer in his sweatshirt, Ryan in his sunglasses even though the sun is pretty much gone by now, compared to all the kids hanging around in barely-there shirts and tight jeans and board shorts-but when he spots Spencer's name on the list, he nods, looking a little relieved that he hadn't laughed in their faces.
They step through the double doors into the gold paint-trimmed lobby, green and purple carpet, dark wood banisters leading up to the balcony seats above, and Patrick wonders if they're going to head backstage. They don't, though, Ryan leading them towards the bar, Spencer grabbing them a table off to the side, where the view is sort of impeded by the mass of bodies crowded around the stage, but there's also room to breathe, which Patrick prefers.
There's still a band on stage-"Westminster Heights," Ryan says, leaning over to speak in Patrick's ear as they get their drinks from the bartender. "I heard their demo about six months ago and thought they sounded pretty generic."-and there's a bit of singing along, but mostly there's milling. It's apparently their finale, though, because with a clash of cymbals they're bowing, saying their thank you's, and leaving the stage.
The lights in the room edge upwards, enough so that Patrick can actually see Spencer sitting at their table as they head in his direction. The intermission is only about fifteen minutes long, though, and then the lights are dimming again, and this time, when the spotlight moves to the stage again, the crowd screams.
Patrick recognizes the kids in the band-after meeting Kevin, he'd looked them up online, listened to a few of their songs-and even though the venue's not sold out, he's pretty sure he can understand why AP listed them as one of their 'Bands To Watch'. The lead singer's got presence in the way that Pete had presence, engaging the audience, talking to them, giving them every opportunity to sing along, scream their approval. They've got a few catchy hooks, too, dance-y numbers-better than their attempts at ballads by a long shot-and Patrick can see Spencer's head bobbing in time with the beat of the drums. Spencer's eyes are pretty much shining, and he looks pretty fucking proud, and Patrick can see why Ryan referred to Kevin as Spencer's protégé earlier.
It's a good show, and by the end of it Patrick's smiling too. It's not often he stays out on the floor for shows nowadays-usually, he's the guest of someone from some label, hanging around backstage and watching from the wings-and it makes for a completely different atmosphere. The heat and sweat and the crowd jumping when the lead singer says jump; just general enthusiasm. When the end finally comes, encore complete, Spencer's standing, clapping with the best of them, adding his voice to the screams of the girls in the crowd, and after a moment, Patrick does, too. Ryan rolls his eyes at them, Patrick sees, but he's also grinning.
After, when the lights have been turned up and the floor is starting to empty-although there are clusters of girls hanging around still, probably hoping that if they wait long enough the band will grace them with their presence-that's when Spencer leads them towards the doors that lead to the backstage area.
There's another guard there, but he seems to recognize Spencer, lets them head on back, and it's only a matter of minutes before they're at the band room, a piece of paper with 'Aqua Angels' scribbled on it taped to a door.
Spencer knocks but doesn't wait for the all clear before turning the handle. Patrick's close enough beside him to see the lead singer turning towards them, ready to bitch out whomever it is that's interrupting them, before he recognizes Spencer. His eyes widen when he sees Ryan and, yes, Patrick, and it's that moment's pause that allows Kevin to reach them first.
"-'s awesome," Kevin is saying to Spencer, before turning to Patrick, blushing a little again. "Good to see you again, man," he says, holding out his hand, this time not bothering to wipe the sweat away. Impossible, Patrick knows, after a show. At which point he turns to the rest of the band and says, "You all know Patrick Stump and Ryan Ross, right?"
The lead singer-Aiden, Patrick later learns-nods, saying, "Fuck yeah, of course, dude." He's bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating, and it only increases when Patrick says, "You guys put on a hell of a show."
Grins all around at that, and one of the guitar players-Patrick thinks lead-maybe sort of whoops, and if he closes his eyes, he can sort of imagine that it's Pete bouncing in front of him, Joe shouting in the corner, Andy standing beside him, fingers tapping out the beat of their last song on his thigh, saying, yeah, yeah, like this.
Yeah.
Like this.
Patrick remembers.
7. The Dinner
On Thursday, Patrick leaves the studio at four.
Amanda, one of his recording engineers, raises an eyebrow as he pushes his chair away from the computer, as he wraps the cord around his headphones and puts them off to the side, but he just says, "Yeah, I'm meeting some friends for dinner tonight, and I'd sort of like to get there before, you know, midnight."
She nods, smirking, glancing in the direction of the street, despite the fact that there are at least four rooms between the sound booth and the parking lot outside. "Good luck with that," she says, already turning back to her own computer, and Patrick says, "Thanks. I'm pretty sure I'm going to need it."
When he talked to Frank earlier in the week, Frank said, "So, sometime between 6:30 and seven o'clock? It should take you, what, an hour twenty, an hour and a half to get over here, right? That should give us plenty of time, yeah?"
Patrick's pretty sure it's going to take him longer than an hour and a half to get to Riverside, though, what with rush hour starting sometime around two, traffic's tendency to move at about the speed of molasses, and the fact that he's seen Frank Iero drive before and, if memory serves, it pretty much illustrates the phrase 'bat out of hell'.
He's prepared, though. He has two CDs that Ryan sent his way, special delivery from Texas, another from Pete-a mix of upcoming DecayDance attractions-and a few demos that managers have dropped off at the studio, hoping to entice him into working with their clients.
He starts with those, hears something he might like to work with in the first, pretty much nothing he likes in the second, and only gets two songs into the third before he realizes he's going to have to listen to it someplace outside of the car, when he's not stuck in traffic, listening to the country music blaring from the BMW on one side of him, the classical coming from the Honda on the other.
Pete's CD is next, then the first of Ryan's, and he's halfway through the second by the time he sees the Riverside exit. Frank's directions are good: straight forward, leading him towards the university, then down a few blocks away from it. He sees coffee places and sandwich shops with neon signs in their windows, and there, right smack dab in the middle of the block, is The Ragged Nest.
The sign in the window reads 'Coming soon!' and already there are mannequins in the windows draped with some of their stock: a skeleton hoodie on one, Jamia's signature item; skirts and blouses in blacks and maroons with silver and gold highlights on another.
Inside he sees people working: Jamia and a girl Patrick doesn't know, her hair in bright blue braids. He doesn't see Frank, and he pauses a moment, looking for him, before he knocks on the window.
The unknown girl looks up first, an almost annoyed expression on her face, something along the lines of: come back later, dude. Can't you see the sign says 'coming soon'? Jamia grins widely, though, when she spots him, stepping away from the rack she's putting together, and wiping her hands on her shorts as she makes her way to the door. She flips the deadbolt, opens the door, then holds out her arms for a hug.
"Patrick!" she says. "You're earlier than I expected! Was traffic awful? I told Frank it would be awful, but he just said, 'Jai, I did it last week, it wasn't that bad', and I said, 'Frankie, I've seen the way you drive. People probably got out of your way to avoid being killed.'"
"And I said, 'fuck yeah, anything to get me there faster,' right, babe?" Frank asks, coming in through the doorway at the back of the room, a cardboard box in his arms. He sets it down on a table, then walks over towards where Jamia's standing, bumping his hip against hers and draping an arm over her shoulders.
Patrick hasn't spent much time around Jamia. He remembers her joining Frank on the Warped tour for a weekend or two, or maybe it was even a few weeks, and he's seen her at various parties through the years-a barbecue in Pete's backyard, something at MTV, a few other places-but it's been a long time.
"This is Karen," Frank says then, pointing to the blue-haired girl. "Jai knew her back in high school. She was lucky enough to win the chance to help us move in, given that it's her fault we're out here, since she was, you know, the one to put the idea in Jamia's head in the first place."
Karen shrugs, a 'what can I say?' sort of gesture, and Jamia grins back at her. Then she sweeps her arm out in front of her and says, "So welcome to the store. You're our first visitor, aside from the pizza delivery kid a few days ago. But he doesn't really count. He pretty much stood on the sidewalk, holding our pizza hostage until we gave him money."
"As they do," Karen says, even as Patrick's asking, "So I guess I should be feeling honored?"
Frank nods enthusiastically.
"Definitely honored, dude. I mean, it's not every day you get to see… this." He looks around the room, and it maybe starts out exaggerated, slightly self-deprecating, but Patrick can see the moment his gaze transforms into something proud.
Because this is theirs, Frank and Jamia's new venture, and. Yeah.
Yeah.
"And I believe you promised me a tour of both rooms," Patrick says, "Not just this one."
"I did," Frank says, standing up just a little bit taller. His arm drops from Jamia's shoulder then, hand moving down to squeeze hers, and he says, "So this is the sales floor, obviously. We're working on sort of a gothic theme to counteract that place across the street."
When Patrick looks in the direction that Frank is pointing, he sees windows covered in bright pink lettering, "Sale!" and "50% off!" and a picture of something that is maybe a smiley-faced daisy wearing sunglasses, he's not quite sure.
"Yeah," he says, turning back around. "Good plan."
Frank practically beams at him, before turning towards the wall to Patrick's right, gesturing at the glass shelves already mounted there.
And the shop may only be two rooms, but it still takes them half an hour to complete the tour, because Frank starts talking about what's going to go where, what their vision is, what sorts of merchandise they're brought out with them, what new ideas Jamia's been working on, and by the time he's done, Patrick can practically see it all.
"We're going to have a grand opening celebration in another two weeks," Frank says. "October 15. You should come, if you have the chance. Gee said he'd come down from Portland for it, and Mikey and Alicia promised to make the trip out from New York, and while Ray's not sure if he'll be able to make it or not, Bob said he could probably get someone to cover for him for a night, so. You know. It'll be like a reunion."
"Yeah," Patrick says. "It sounds like it. I'll have to check my, you know-"
"Of course," Jamia says. "We hope you'll be able to make it, though."
She pulls away from Frank then, because at some point during the tour, he hooked his hand around her waist, and says, "And you boys, I think, need to go get dinner." When Patrick opens his mouth to ask, 'you aren't coming, too?' she shakes her head and links her arm through Karen's, leaning her head on her friend's shoulder.
"We're going to have a girl's night in," she says. "Doing girly things and letting you boys talk about your music things in peace, without us saying 'who' and 'what' and 'could you please speak in English instead of music-ese?' every few sentences. It will be wonderful.'
And with that, Patrick finds himself being herded towards the front door, then outside.
They walk to the restaurant, a shitty looking little Mexican place just a few blocks away. Patrick stares at it for a moment before they go in, noticing that the tables out front have uneven legs and are flanked by cheap plastic chairs, that the awning up above is hanging crookedly over its frame.
"I know," Frank says, holding the door open for Patrick, the cheap bells hanging on the other side still jangling, and Patrick wishes he didn't know quite what Frank meant by that, but he's pretty sure he knows exactly what Frank means. This isn't LA, after all, where even the cheap restaurants are staffed by aspiring actors and are stalked by paparazzi waiting to catch this week's hot celebrity slumming it, preferably with mayonnaise on their chin.
"I was thinking the same thing," Frank continues, pushing the door open, "when Karen brought us here after we arrived, but she claimed that you haven't really lived until you've tried their guacamole, and- And I swear, Jamia and I have been back twice since. Which wouldn't be saying a whole lot, except that we've only been in the state for fifteen days."
Patrick nods as he looks around the inside of the restaurant.
The walls are covered in murals: famous faces from Mexican history, hillsides of crops, trees and flowers, all done in bright reds and golds and browns and greens. Nine of the twelve tables are full, and after a quick glance around the room, Frank leads the way to an open one by the window, giving them a perfect view of the cracked sidewalk outside.
It takes a few moments for a girl to bring over menus and bowls of chips and salsa and yes, the guacamole, which Frank digs into as Patrick takes a first look at the menu. "You know what you want?" he asks, and Frank nods.
"I've become a creature of habit in my old age," he says. "Besides: the cheese enchiladas? Also to die for."
When their waitress comes back over, she's smiling at Frank. "The usual?" she asks, like he's been coming here for years, not just two weeks, and Frank says, "You already know me too well."
"And I'll have the same," Patrick says, before she can ask him, and as she shakes her head fondly at them, he grabs a chip from the bowl and dips it into the guacamole, taking a bite. It's mostly smooth, slightly chunky, with a flavor that's, yeah, okay, pretty much to die for, and Patrick's finishing his chip and reaching back for seconds even as he's still chewing.
Frank laughs. "I told you, man," he says. "Riverside… it's got three claims to fame, as far as I can tell: the smog, the fact that it's hotter than the armpit of hell, and this restaurant."
"I'm starting to see that," Patrick says. "Although some people might say that the university should be considered a claim to fame, too."
Frank flaps his hand in front of him, as if batting the comment away. "Good university, good Mexican food. I, personally, believe that the good food is far more rare. And I should know, right? We both should."
And he's right: if anyone should know good food, it's musicians. Years spent in busses and in the backs of vans and Patrick's not even sure how many circuits of the country he's made during his career. He's eaten in good shitty little restaurants and shitty shitty little restaurants, where the cooks wouldn't have known the meaning of the word vegetarian (much less vegan) if bit them in the ass.
"Yeah, yeah," Patrick says, "exactly. If anyone should, we should."
Frank grins widely then, shaking his head slightly, and Patrick asks, "What?"
"I was just thinking. I'm surprised Pete hasn’t thought to do something with that. Like, the road musician's guide to restaurants in the United States. He could probably make a fortune."
"He probably could," Patrick agrees, "but please don't mention it to him. He'd probably insist on doing most of the research himself, which would mean that he'd try to con me into going on a road trip with him, and just, yeah, no."
"What?" Frank asks. "No more living in the back of a bus for you, Stump? I'm surprised. I thought that once it was in your blood, it was always in your blood."
Patrick wants to say is 'It is.'
He says, "Yeah, well. You know."
8. The Studio
"Yeah, so," Patrick says into the seemingly sudden quiet, turning away from the window into the recording booth to look at Amanda. "Ha, fuck. Yeah, that could have gone better."
She nods.
"Yes, it could have," she says. She grins brightly after a moment, though. "But look on the bright side… If Last Bastion of Sanity ever decides to add a track to their album that consists of them screaming at each other, they won't even have to come back into the studio to do it again. I captured it all right here!" She gives the console a loving pat and Patrick can't help but laugh.
"Because that's what everyone wants to hear on an album," he says. "A chorus of 'Fuck you. No, actually, go fuck yourself, you fucking fuck.' Or however it went."
"Or however it went," she echoes, shaking her head almost fondly. She pushes her chair away from the computer. "Though it does have potential, don't you think? Maybe we could make it into a hidden track? Ooh, possibly a rap?"
"We could make it a Best Buy exclusive," Patrick says. "The 'Parental Guidance Only EP'? Available while supplies last?"
"I like the way you think, P. Stump." Amanda chuckles as she stands up, as she grabs her sweatshirt off the back of her chair before reaching over to pat Patrick on the top of his head, knocking his hat a little farther forward over his eyes. "Goodnight, Stump. Try to get out of here at a reasonable hour tonight, won't you?"
"Yeah, yeah," he says, batting her hand away, and then she's gone, shutting the door behind her.
He leans back in his chair after she's gone, pinching at his nose, hoping to relieve some of the pressure that built up behind his eyes during the session: the slow escalation of sniping into full-blown screaming, red faces and narrowed eyes, before Patrick finally told them go home already since they were wasting his time, their label's money, and they'd better have sorted their problems out before stepping through his door the next day, do you understand?
They went.
When Patrick looks back through the window into the recording studio, though, he sees that it isn't empty, not like he was expecting it to be. Adam, one of their studio musicians, one of the newer guys on the studio's speed-dial, is still sitting at his keyboard in the corner of the room, looking back at Patrick. His fingers are ghosting over keys, barely pressing down, a muted strain occasionally filtering through the speakers into Patrick's sound booth. He smiles a bit when Patrick raises an eyebrow in his direction, but it's wistful, too, a look Patrick is pretty sure he recognizes.
One Patrick's pretty sure he understands.
Patrick leans forward, pressing the button at the base of the microphone so that his voice will carry into the studio. "Listen," he says, "I'm going to be sticking around here for a bit, trying to get some of that-" He waves his hand around in the air, and Adam sort of smirks. "-out of my head. So you're, you know, welcome to stay and fuck around for awhile, too, if you want."
Adam blinks at him once, twice, then nods. He runs a hand through his tangled hair as he says, "Um, yeah. Okay, yeah."
Patrick nods, then turns the microphone off again, turns the speakers off, too, until the sound booth is silent around him. He pulls his headphones on, then reaches over to the computer next to him, opening up the track he wants. There's a spot thirty seconds in that needs something, but whether it's drums or more bass or, hell, a fucking kazoo, Patrick's not sure.
He listens to it once all the way through, then again, again, again, and then he turns his attention forward, and he blinks, because Adam isn't sitting in his corner any longer, playing the keyboard. He's made his way to the stool in the center of the room. He's perched on it, a bass balanced across his thighs and he's slowly picking out notes, his eyes closed.
Without truly realizing he's doing it, Patrick pulls his headphones off, presses the button to turn the speakers back on, and listens.
At first it just sounds like a mindless jumble of notes, but then it morphs into something Patrick does know-the bass line to the song Last Bastion was trying to record today. Adam's foot is tapping against the bottom rung of the stool and his head is bobbing to the rhythm of the music, and Patrick wonders if he's hearing the full song in his head now: the beat of the drums, the riffs of the lead guitar. The lead singer, you know, actually singing instead of screaming.
Patrick lets him play, watches him, and when the piece starts winding down, Patrick gets up from his chair, makes his way out into the hallway, and opens the door to the studio just about the time Adam finishes. Adam looks startled for a moment upon seeing Patrick, as if he forgot that Patrick was even there.
Maybe, Patrick thinks, he did.
"Sounds good," Patrick says, leaning against the doorjamb. "Better than fucking anything else that came out of here today, for sure."
"Yeah, right," Adam says, laughing a little, almost bitterly. "Yeah, that was something today. Reminded me a bit of my old band."
"And not in a good way, I'm assuming," Patrick says.
Adam looks like he wants to say more-looks like he has a lot more to say-but instead, after a moment, he just shrugs, then looks down at his guitar again, picking out more notes. "Not my concern now, though, is it?" He grins once, quickly, before his eyes slip closed again, face going a little lax.
Patrick wonders again what he's hearing in his head: if it's a song Patrick would know, one from his old band, one of his own composition, or if it's just notes strung together.
He stays, listening, for a few more long moments, then turns to leave. Before the door can swing shut, though, he steps back again, catching it with his foot. His shoe squeaks against the acoustic tile of the floor and Adam opens his eyes again, raising an eyebrow, then looking down at his watch, an almost guilty look on his face.
"Fuck, I'm sorry, you said a little while, you're probably ready to go. I'll just-" he starts, but Patrick says, "No, no. I was just. Wondering if you'd mind some company? It's been awhile since I sat down and-" He gestures at the instruments in the room, and Adam stares at him for a beat, two, before finally nodding. As Patrick watches, he settles back on his stool, running a finger over the strings of his guitar again.
It hasn't been that long, of course, Patrick thinks as he selects his guitar. A month ago he was sitting in Jon's bar, playing around with Pete and Spencer and Brendon, working their way through the back catalog of Fall Out Boy and Panic! at the Disco songs, with some 80's Power Ballads thrown in for good measure. It feels like it's been longer than that, though, and Patrick wonders at that.
Six months ago, the only time he picked up a guitar or sat down at the drums was in the privacy of his own home, or when he needed to illustrate a point to one of the bands in the studio. Two visits with Spencer Smith, two with Frank Iero, and an impromptu jam session in Chicago, though, and playing for himself-and himself only-doesn't sound as appealing as it once did.
"What were you just playing?" Patrick asks. His fingers are already going to the machine heads, twisting them.
"Oh, just something from a while ago," Adam says. Then he smirks again, or possibly winces. "My band's one big hit. As in, we actually had a room of about four hundred kids singing along with us once. It was awesome."
"Yeah," Patrick says. "Yeah, that always is."
He can remember the first time kids sang along with his songs. It was in some youth center, fifty or sixty kids in the crowd-he could see them all, he remembers-and there were five or so kids in the first row actually mouthing along, lips forming the words before Patrick's could. That night, during a guitar interlude, he joined in Pete and Joe's spinning, and Pete slung an arm around him at the very end, pulling Patrick's head down to his shoulder as he said, "Like this, yeah? This, this is how it's supposed to be."
"We made a CD, a little six song EP," Adam continues, picking out that same string of notes again. "When we sold our hundredth copy we thought we were hot shit. We even went on tour for a summer, sure we were going to take over the world, you know? But, yeah. You know how it is. And here I am."
There are things for Patrick to say to that: 'here you are,' or 'yeah, I know.'
What he says is, "Show me how it goes?"
Continued.
Author: tigs
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't know or own.
Author's Notes: Previous bits can be found here. Many thanks to amy13 for the look over!
6. The Show
The first Patrick knows of the plan to kidnap him, he hears the door to the sound booth opening, then Ryan Ross saying, "See, I told you he'd still fucking be here."
Patrick's spinning in his chair even as Ryan speaks, so he sees the grin that Spencer gives the other man as he asks, "Did I say I didn't believe you? I never said I didn't believe you." He turns his attention towards Patrick then, his grin, impossibly, widening even more. "Hi," he says, "we're here to kidnap you," and as Patrick asks, "Oh, really?" Spencer continues, "If you have time, that is. If we aren't, like, derailing some group's next number one hit."
Patrick stares at them for a moment, thinking, unsure of what to say.
He could say yes, they were interrupting, because he's got three different songs queued up on the board right now-maybe not number one hit singles, but something. He's got prep work to do before the new group, Last Bastion of Sanity, comes into the studio on Monday: ideas to prepare, studio musicians to schedule, figuring out what instruments are needed what day.
Ryan's watching him like Pete does, though, like he knows what excuses are trying to form in Patrick's head, and he says, "One of Spencer's protégés is playing a show tonight at The Gateway, so of course he decided he needs backup so that he doesn't have to face the mass of screaming teenage girls by himself. Because he's a wimpfff-"
Spencer claps a hand over Ryan's mouth as he says, "The Aqua Angels are playing-" He turns to look at Ryan halfway through the sentence, making a face before pulling his hand away and wiping it on his jeans. Ryan just grins serenely as Spencer turns his attention back to Patrick and says, "-and I thought you might be interested in seeing them since, you know, you sat in on Kevin's lesson that one time."
He looks hopeful, but understanding, too, and Patrick can still say no, knows that if he does, Spencer and Ryan will leave and he'll have the rest of the evening to himself, as he'd planned. He probably should say no, he thinks, because he's already got plans to leave early to go down to Frank's next Thursday and demos he's promised to get to people sooner rather than later, preferably before he starts in with Last Bastion, but-
-but it's not like his social life is so packed that he won't have tomorrow night, Saturday, Sunday, to get the work done.
Besides, he thinks, a night out would probably do him some good. He can almost hear Pete's voice in his head saying, 'All work and no play makes Patrick a dull little fuck,' and as he smiles at that thought, he says, "Yeah, no. That'd be, yeah. Let me just, you know, save things here and then I'll be ready to-"
Ryan nods, looking satisfied, like Patrick's made the only acceptable choice, as far as he's concerned, but Spencer, he practically fucking beams.
*
They take Ryan's car, Spencer sitting shotgun, and the drive only takes about half an hour. It's late enough that Patrick knows the opener must already be at least halfway through their set, but when they drive by the venue there's still a crowd of people hanging around out front, there are still minivans pulled up outside, parents dropping teenagers off.
"There's a reason Spence wanted the backup," Ryan says to Patrick as they turn a corner, seeming to know what Patrick's thinking-namely, that he's suddenly feeling really fucking old. Fucking minivans. "You'd also think I'd know better, after last time-"
"Last time was not that bad," Spencer protests.
"-when he dragged me all the way down to fucking San Diego, to the beach, where there was sand, Stump, and a crowd of kids who looked like they'd left their surf boards outside-"
"They're a surfer punk band," Spencer says. "What did you expect?"
"Sand, Spencer. In my shoes," Ryan says, and he's suddenly laughing in a way that Patrick's rarely seen him laugh before-not around people who aren't in his band anyway.
"And you call me a wimp." Spencer shakes his head, and then Ryan's pulling the car into a space around behind the venue and they're all getting out. The night air is still warm and a little sticky, the mid-September heat wave hasn't yet faded away, and Patrick pushes the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows as they walk towards the front door.
In the time it took them to park, a good portion of the kids have gone inside, but there are still some huddled by the corner, smoking their last cigarette before heading through the doors. Patrick keeps his head down, his hat pulled low over his face, but it's not like he expects any of the kids to recognize him-they mostly don't nowadays-and Spencer and Ryan don't seem to be worrying about it either.
Then Spencer's stepping up to the door and saying, "Spencer Smith. We're on the list."
The ticket man, a big burly guy with tattoos winding around his arms, looks as if he wants to smirk-Patrick in his trucker's hat, Spencer in his sweatshirt, Ryan in his sunglasses even though the sun is pretty much gone by now, compared to all the kids hanging around in barely-there shirts and tight jeans and board shorts-but when he spots Spencer's name on the list, he nods, looking a little relieved that he hadn't laughed in their faces.
They step through the double doors into the gold paint-trimmed lobby, green and purple carpet, dark wood banisters leading up to the balcony seats above, and Patrick wonders if they're going to head backstage. They don't, though, Ryan leading them towards the bar, Spencer grabbing them a table off to the side, where the view is sort of impeded by the mass of bodies crowded around the stage, but there's also room to breathe, which Patrick prefers.
There's still a band on stage-"Westminster Heights," Ryan says, leaning over to speak in Patrick's ear as they get their drinks from the bartender. "I heard their demo about six months ago and thought they sounded pretty generic."-and there's a bit of singing along, but mostly there's milling. It's apparently their finale, though, because with a clash of cymbals they're bowing, saying their thank you's, and leaving the stage.
The lights in the room edge upwards, enough so that Patrick can actually see Spencer sitting at their table as they head in his direction. The intermission is only about fifteen minutes long, though, and then the lights are dimming again, and this time, when the spotlight moves to the stage again, the crowd screams.
Patrick recognizes the kids in the band-after meeting Kevin, he'd looked them up online, listened to a few of their songs-and even though the venue's not sold out, he's pretty sure he can understand why AP listed them as one of their 'Bands To Watch'. The lead singer's got presence in the way that Pete had presence, engaging the audience, talking to them, giving them every opportunity to sing along, scream their approval. They've got a few catchy hooks, too, dance-y numbers-better than their attempts at ballads by a long shot-and Patrick can see Spencer's head bobbing in time with the beat of the drums. Spencer's eyes are pretty much shining, and he looks pretty fucking proud, and Patrick can see why Ryan referred to Kevin as Spencer's protégé earlier.
It's a good show, and by the end of it Patrick's smiling too. It's not often he stays out on the floor for shows nowadays-usually, he's the guest of someone from some label, hanging around backstage and watching from the wings-and it makes for a completely different atmosphere. The heat and sweat and the crowd jumping when the lead singer says jump; just general enthusiasm. When the end finally comes, encore complete, Spencer's standing, clapping with the best of them, adding his voice to the screams of the girls in the crowd, and after a moment, Patrick does, too. Ryan rolls his eyes at them, Patrick sees, but he's also grinning.
After, when the lights have been turned up and the floor is starting to empty-although there are clusters of girls hanging around still, probably hoping that if they wait long enough the band will grace them with their presence-that's when Spencer leads them towards the doors that lead to the backstage area.
There's another guard there, but he seems to recognize Spencer, lets them head on back, and it's only a matter of minutes before they're at the band room, a piece of paper with 'Aqua Angels' scribbled on it taped to a door.
Spencer knocks but doesn't wait for the all clear before turning the handle. Patrick's close enough beside him to see the lead singer turning towards them, ready to bitch out whomever it is that's interrupting them, before he recognizes Spencer. His eyes widen when he sees Ryan and, yes, Patrick, and it's that moment's pause that allows Kevin to reach them first.
"-'s awesome," Kevin is saying to Spencer, before turning to Patrick, blushing a little again. "Good to see you again, man," he says, holding out his hand, this time not bothering to wipe the sweat away. Impossible, Patrick knows, after a show. At which point he turns to the rest of the band and says, "You all know Patrick Stump and Ryan Ross, right?"
The lead singer-Aiden, Patrick later learns-nods, saying, "Fuck yeah, of course, dude." He's bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating, and it only increases when Patrick says, "You guys put on a hell of a show."
Grins all around at that, and one of the guitar players-Patrick thinks lead-maybe sort of whoops, and if he closes his eyes, he can sort of imagine that it's Pete bouncing in front of him, Joe shouting in the corner, Andy standing beside him, fingers tapping out the beat of their last song on his thigh, saying, yeah, yeah, like this.
Yeah.
Like this.
Patrick remembers.
7. The Dinner
On Thursday, Patrick leaves the studio at four.
Amanda, one of his recording engineers, raises an eyebrow as he pushes his chair away from the computer, as he wraps the cord around his headphones and puts them off to the side, but he just says, "Yeah, I'm meeting some friends for dinner tonight, and I'd sort of like to get there before, you know, midnight."
She nods, smirking, glancing in the direction of the street, despite the fact that there are at least four rooms between the sound booth and the parking lot outside. "Good luck with that," she says, already turning back to her own computer, and Patrick says, "Thanks. I'm pretty sure I'm going to need it."
When he talked to Frank earlier in the week, Frank said, "So, sometime between 6:30 and seven o'clock? It should take you, what, an hour twenty, an hour and a half to get over here, right? That should give us plenty of time, yeah?"
Patrick's pretty sure it's going to take him longer than an hour and a half to get to Riverside, though, what with rush hour starting sometime around two, traffic's tendency to move at about the speed of molasses, and the fact that he's seen Frank Iero drive before and, if memory serves, it pretty much illustrates the phrase 'bat out of hell'.
He's prepared, though. He has two CDs that Ryan sent his way, special delivery from Texas, another from Pete-a mix of upcoming DecayDance attractions-and a few demos that managers have dropped off at the studio, hoping to entice him into working with their clients.
He starts with those, hears something he might like to work with in the first, pretty much nothing he likes in the second, and only gets two songs into the third before he realizes he's going to have to listen to it someplace outside of the car, when he's not stuck in traffic, listening to the country music blaring from the BMW on one side of him, the classical coming from the Honda on the other.
Pete's CD is next, then the first of Ryan's, and he's halfway through the second by the time he sees the Riverside exit. Frank's directions are good: straight forward, leading him towards the university, then down a few blocks away from it. He sees coffee places and sandwich shops with neon signs in their windows, and there, right smack dab in the middle of the block, is The Ragged Nest.
The sign in the window reads 'Coming soon!' and already there are mannequins in the windows draped with some of their stock: a skeleton hoodie on one, Jamia's signature item; skirts and blouses in blacks and maroons with silver and gold highlights on another.
Inside he sees people working: Jamia and a girl Patrick doesn't know, her hair in bright blue braids. He doesn't see Frank, and he pauses a moment, looking for him, before he knocks on the window.
The unknown girl looks up first, an almost annoyed expression on her face, something along the lines of: come back later, dude. Can't you see the sign says 'coming soon'? Jamia grins widely, though, when she spots him, stepping away from the rack she's putting together, and wiping her hands on her shorts as she makes her way to the door. She flips the deadbolt, opens the door, then holds out her arms for a hug.
"Patrick!" she says. "You're earlier than I expected! Was traffic awful? I told Frank it would be awful, but he just said, 'Jai, I did it last week, it wasn't that bad', and I said, 'Frankie, I've seen the way you drive. People probably got out of your way to avoid being killed.'"
"And I said, 'fuck yeah, anything to get me there faster,' right, babe?" Frank asks, coming in through the doorway at the back of the room, a cardboard box in his arms. He sets it down on a table, then walks over towards where Jamia's standing, bumping his hip against hers and draping an arm over her shoulders.
Patrick hasn't spent much time around Jamia. He remembers her joining Frank on the Warped tour for a weekend or two, or maybe it was even a few weeks, and he's seen her at various parties through the years-a barbecue in Pete's backyard, something at MTV, a few other places-but it's been a long time.
"This is Karen," Frank says then, pointing to the blue-haired girl. "Jai knew her back in high school. She was lucky enough to win the chance to help us move in, given that it's her fault we're out here, since she was, you know, the one to put the idea in Jamia's head in the first place."
Karen shrugs, a 'what can I say?' sort of gesture, and Jamia grins back at her. Then she sweeps her arm out in front of her and says, "So welcome to the store. You're our first visitor, aside from the pizza delivery kid a few days ago. But he doesn't really count. He pretty much stood on the sidewalk, holding our pizza hostage until we gave him money."
"As they do," Karen says, even as Patrick's asking, "So I guess I should be feeling honored?"
Frank nods enthusiastically.
"Definitely honored, dude. I mean, it's not every day you get to see… this." He looks around the room, and it maybe starts out exaggerated, slightly self-deprecating, but Patrick can see the moment his gaze transforms into something proud.
Because this is theirs, Frank and Jamia's new venture, and. Yeah.
Yeah.
"And I believe you promised me a tour of both rooms," Patrick says, "Not just this one."
"I did," Frank says, standing up just a little bit taller. His arm drops from Jamia's shoulder then, hand moving down to squeeze hers, and he says, "So this is the sales floor, obviously. We're working on sort of a gothic theme to counteract that place across the street."
When Patrick looks in the direction that Frank is pointing, he sees windows covered in bright pink lettering, "Sale!" and "50% off!" and a picture of something that is maybe a smiley-faced daisy wearing sunglasses, he's not quite sure.
"Yeah," he says, turning back around. "Good plan."
Frank practically beams at him, before turning towards the wall to Patrick's right, gesturing at the glass shelves already mounted there.
And the shop may only be two rooms, but it still takes them half an hour to complete the tour, because Frank starts talking about what's going to go where, what their vision is, what sorts of merchandise they're brought out with them, what new ideas Jamia's been working on, and by the time he's done, Patrick can practically see it all.
"We're going to have a grand opening celebration in another two weeks," Frank says. "October 15. You should come, if you have the chance. Gee said he'd come down from Portland for it, and Mikey and Alicia promised to make the trip out from New York, and while Ray's not sure if he'll be able to make it or not, Bob said he could probably get someone to cover for him for a night, so. You know. It'll be like a reunion."
"Yeah," Patrick says. "It sounds like it. I'll have to check my, you know-"
"Of course," Jamia says. "We hope you'll be able to make it, though."
She pulls away from Frank then, because at some point during the tour, he hooked his hand around her waist, and says, "And you boys, I think, need to go get dinner." When Patrick opens his mouth to ask, 'you aren't coming, too?' she shakes her head and links her arm through Karen's, leaning her head on her friend's shoulder.
"We're going to have a girl's night in," she says. "Doing girly things and letting you boys talk about your music things in peace, without us saying 'who' and 'what' and 'could you please speak in English instead of music-ese?' every few sentences. It will be wonderful.'
And with that, Patrick finds himself being herded towards the front door, then outside.
They walk to the restaurant, a shitty looking little Mexican place just a few blocks away. Patrick stares at it for a moment before they go in, noticing that the tables out front have uneven legs and are flanked by cheap plastic chairs, that the awning up above is hanging crookedly over its frame.
"I know," Frank says, holding the door open for Patrick, the cheap bells hanging on the other side still jangling, and Patrick wishes he didn't know quite what Frank meant by that, but he's pretty sure he knows exactly what Frank means. This isn't LA, after all, where even the cheap restaurants are staffed by aspiring actors and are stalked by paparazzi waiting to catch this week's hot celebrity slumming it, preferably with mayonnaise on their chin.
"I was thinking the same thing," Frank continues, pushing the door open, "when Karen brought us here after we arrived, but she claimed that you haven't really lived until you've tried their guacamole, and- And I swear, Jamia and I have been back twice since. Which wouldn't be saying a whole lot, except that we've only been in the state for fifteen days."
Patrick nods as he looks around the inside of the restaurant.
The walls are covered in murals: famous faces from Mexican history, hillsides of crops, trees and flowers, all done in bright reds and golds and browns and greens. Nine of the twelve tables are full, and after a quick glance around the room, Frank leads the way to an open one by the window, giving them a perfect view of the cracked sidewalk outside.
It takes a few moments for a girl to bring over menus and bowls of chips and salsa and yes, the guacamole, which Frank digs into as Patrick takes a first look at the menu. "You know what you want?" he asks, and Frank nods.
"I've become a creature of habit in my old age," he says. "Besides: the cheese enchiladas? Also to die for."
When their waitress comes back over, she's smiling at Frank. "The usual?" she asks, like he's been coming here for years, not just two weeks, and Frank says, "You already know me too well."
"And I'll have the same," Patrick says, before she can ask him, and as she shakes her head fondly at them, he grabs a chip from the bowl and dips it into the guacamole, taking a bite. It's mostly smooth, slightly chunky, with a flavor that's, yeah, okay, pretty much to die for, and Patrick's finishing his chip and reaching back for seconds even as he's still chewing.
Frank laughs. "I told you, man," he says. "Riverside… it's got three claims to fame, as far as I can tell: the smog, the fact that it's hotter than the armpit of hell, and this restaurant."
"I'm starting to see that," Patrick says. "Although some people might say that the university should be considered a claim to fame, too."
Frank flaps his hand in front of him, as if batting the comment away. "Good university, good Mexican food. I, personally, believe that the good food is far more rare. And I should know, right? We both should."
And he's right: if anyone should know good food, it's musicians. Years spent in busses and in the backs of vans and Patrick's not even sure how many circuits of the country he's made during his career. He's eaten in good shitty little restaurants and shitty shitty little restaurants, where the cooks wouldn't have known the meaning of the word vegetarian (much less vegan) if bit them in the ass.
"Yeah, yeah," Patrick says, "exactly. If anyone should, we should."
Frank grins widely then, shaking his head slightly, and Patrick asks, "What?"
"I was just thinking. I'm surprised Pete hasn’t thought to do something with that. Like, the road musician's guide to restaurants in the United States. He could probably make a fortune."
"He probably could," Patrick agrees, "but please don't mention it to him. He'd probably insist on doing most of the research himself, which would mean that he'd try to con me into going on a road trip with him, and just, yeah, no."
"What?" Frank asks. "No more living in the back of a bus for you, Stump? I'm surprised. I thought that once it was in your blood, it was always in your blood."
Patrick wants to say is 'It is.'
He says, "Yeah, well. You know."
8. The Studio
"Yeah, so," Patrick says into the seemingly sudden quiet, turning away from the window into the recording booth to look at Amanda. "Ha, fuck. Yeah, that could have gone better."
She nods.
"Yes, it could have," she says. She grins brightly after a moment, though. "But look on the bright side… If Last Bastion of Sanity ever decides to add a track to their album that consists of them screaming at each other, they won't even have to come back into the studio to do it again. I captured it all right here!" She gives the console a loving pat and Patrick can't help but laugh.
"Because that's what everyone wants to hear on an album," he says. "A chorus of 'Fuck you. No, actually, go fuck yourself, you fucking fuck.' Or however it went."
"Or however it went," she echoes, shaking her head almost fondly. She pushes her chair away from the computer. "Though it does have potential, don't you think? Maybe we could make it into a hidden track? Ooh, possibly a rap?"
"We could make it a Best Buy exclusive," Patrick says. "The 'Parental Guidance Only EP'? Available while supplies last?"
"I like the way you think, P. Stump." Amanda chuckles as she stands up, as she grabs her sweatshirt off the back of her chair before reaching over to pat Patrick on the top of his head, knocking his hat a little farther forward over his eyes. "Goodnight, Stump. Try to get out of here at a reasonable hour tonight, won't you?"
"Yeah, yeah," he says, batting her hand away, and then she's gone, shutting the door behind her.
He leans back in his chair after she's gone, pinching at his nose, hoping to relieve some of the pressure that built up behind his eyes during the session: the slow escalation of sniping into full-blown screaming, red faces and narrowed eyes, before Patrick finally told them go home already since they were wasting his time, their label's money, and they'd better have sorted their problems out before stepping through his door the next day, do you understand?
They went.
When Patrick looks back through the window into the recording studio, though, he sees that it isn't empty, not like he was expecting it to be. Adam, one of their studio musicians, one of the newer guys on the studio's speed-dial, is still sitting at his keyboard in the corner of the room, looking back at Patrick. His fingers are ghosting over keys, barely pressing down, a muted strain occasionally filtering through the speakers into Patrick's sound booth. He smiles a bit when Patrick raises an eyebrow in his direction, but it's wistful, too, a look Patrick is pretty sure he recognizes.
One Patrick's pretty sure he understands.
Patrick leans forward, pressing the button at the base of the microphone so that his voice will carry into the studio. "Listen," he says, "I'm going to be sticking around here for a bit, trying to get some of that-" He waves his hand around in the air, and Adam sort of smirks. "-out of my head. So you're, you know, welcome to stay and fuck around for awhile, too, if you want."
Adam blinks at him once, twice, then nods. He runs a hand through his tangled hair as he says, "Um, yeah. Okay, yeah."
Patrick nods, then turns the microphone off again, turns the speakers off, too, until the sound booth is silent around him. He pulls his headphones on, then reaches over to the computer next to him, opening up the track he wants. There's a spot thirty seconds in that needs something, but whether it's drums or more bass or, hell, a fucking kazoo, Patrick's not sure.
He listens to it once all the way through, then again, again, again, and then he turns his attention forward, and he blinks, because Adam isn't sitting in his corner any longer, playing the keyboard. He's made his way to the stool in the center of the room. He's perched on it, a bass balanced across his thighs and he's slowly picking out notes, his eyes closed.
Without truly realizing he's doing it, Patrick pulls his headphones off, presses the button to turn the speakers back on, and listens.
At first it just sounds like a mindless jumble of notes, but then it morphs into something Patrick does know-the bass line to the song Last Bastion was trying to record today. Adam's foot is tapping against the bottom rung of the stool and his head is bobbing to the rhythm of the music, and Patrick wonders if he's hearing the full song in his head now: the beat of the drums, the riffs of the lead guitar. The lead singer, you know, actually singing instead of screaming.
Patrick lets him play, watches him, and when the piece starts winding down, Patrick gets up from his chair, makes his way out into the hallway, and opens the door to the studio just about the time Adam finishes. Adam looks startled for a moment upon seeing Patrick, as if he forgot that Patrick was even there.
Maybe, Patrick thinks, he did.
"Sounds good," Patrick says, leaning against the doorjamb. "Better than fucking anything else that came out of here today, for sure."
"Yeah, right," Adam says, laughing a little, almost bitterly. "Yeah, that was something today. Reminded me a bit of my old band."
"And not in a good way, I'm assuming," Patrick says.
Adam looks like he wants to say more-looks like he has a lot more to say-but instead, after a moment, he just shrugs, then looks down at his guitar again, picking out more notes. "Not my concern now, though, is it?" He grins once, quickly, before his eyes slip closed again, face going a little lax.
Patrick wonders again what he's hearing in his head: if it's a song Patrick would know, one from his old band, one of his own composition, or if it's just notes strung together.
He stays, listening, for a few more long moments, then turns to leave. Before the door can swing shut, though, he steps back again, catching it with his foot. His shoe squeaks against the acoustic tile of the floor and Adam opens his eyes again, raising an eyebrow, then looking down at his watch, an almost guilty look on his face.
"Fuck, I'm sorry, you said a little while, you're probably ready to go. I'll just-" he starts, but Patrick says, "No, no. I was just. Wondering if you'd mind some company? It's been awhile since I sat down and-" He gestures at the instruments in the room, and Adam stares at him for a beat, two, before finally nodding. As Patrick watches, he settles back on his stool, running a finger over the strings of his guitar again.
It hasn't been that long, of course, Patrick thinks as he selects his guitar. A month ago he was sitting in Jon's bar, playing around with Pete and Spencer and Brendon, working their way through the back catalog of Fall Out Boy and Panic! at the Disco songs, with some 80's Power Ballads thrown in for good measure. It feels like it's been longer than that, though, and Patrick wonders at that.
Six months ago, the only time he picked up a guitar or sat down at the drums was in the privacy of his own home, or when he needed to illustrate a point to one of the bands in the studio. Two visits with Spencer Smith, two with Frank Iero, and an impromptu jam session in Chicago, though, and playing for himself-and himself only-doesn't sound as appealing as it once did.
"What were you just playing?" Patrick asks. His fingers are already going to the machine heads, twisting them.
"Oh, just something from a while ago," Adam says. Then he smirks again, or possibly winces. "My band's one big hit. As in, we actually had a room of about four hundred kids singing along with us once. It was awesome."
"Yeah," Patrick says. "Yeah, that always is."
He can remember the first time kids sang along with his songs. It was in some youth center, fifty or sixty kids in the crowd-he could see them all, he remembers-and there were five or so kids in the first row actually mouthing along, lips forming the words before Patrick's could. That night, during a guitar interlude, he joined in Pete and Joe's spinning, and Pete slung an arm around him at the very end, pulling Patrick's head down to his shoulder as he said, "Like this, yeah? This, this is how it's supposed to be."
"We made a CD, a little six song EP," Adam continues, picking out that same string of notes again. "When we sold our hundredth copy we thought we were hot shit. We even went on tour for a summer, sure we were going to take over the world, you know? But, yeah. You know how it is. And here I am."
There are things for Patrick to say to that: 'here you are,' or 'yeah, I know.'
What he says is, "Show me how it goes?"
Continued.