Patrick woke up back in the Wentz house. They had lain him on the bed in the guest room, quiet, comfy and out of the way. Whoever had brought him here had taken his shoes and socks off and set them on the floor next to the bed. His jacket was draped over the desk chair. His shirt was still on, though the sleeves had been rolled up and his pants were still caked with mud. Rain still pounded on the walls. Beneath the floorboards, Patrick could hear the repast going on without him.
Almost immediately his cheeks burned with embarrassment. His heart sank, weighed down by shame and guilt. Count on Patrick Stump to faint and make a big scene at the funeral of three people whom he'd spent the last several years actively avoiding. And in front of their grieving families, no less. He'd thought bleaching his hair and dancing like a fool on stage was as far as his audacity could take him, but nope, there was more! Patrick groaned into his hands. There was no way he would be able to face anyone else at this funeral after such a pathetic showing.
Unfortunately for him, by the sound of the creaking footsteps coming towards the room, it seemed like he was going to have to do that pretty soon anyway.
Sure enough, when the footsteps stopped, the door creaked open. Mrs. Wentz walked in, and Patrick deduced pretty quickly that she had been the one to set him up like this. He suppressed another groan. Out of all the people at this funeral he did not need Pete's mother taking care of him, not when she had so much on her plate already.
"Ah, there you are," Mrs. Wentz said when she saw his open eyes. "You're awake. Are you feeling better? You gave everyone at the service quite a scare…"
Patrick flushed at the thought of how much he must have worried everyone. "I know…" he croaked, putting his face in his hands. "I'm sorry…"
"Oh no, no, no, no, no, don't apologize," Mrs. Wentz said, and she took his small wrist in her hand, held to gently but firmly so that the gesture alone almost broke him. "This is a funeral, Patrick. No one's going to blame you for just showing that you're hurting. No matter how you do it."
Patrick slowly closed his eyes. Jesus, Mrs. Wentz had a way with words. He supposed that was where Pete had gotten it from. The thought of him brought tears to his eyes once again and he let out a stuttering gasp, then a sob. "Two years…" he choked out. "I didn't talk to them for almost two years… for no reason…"
Mrs. Wentz said nothing. Only gently stroked his wrist with her finger. Stroked his wrist and listened.
"They didn't even know…" Patrick hiccupped. "They didn't know…"
"That you loved them?" Mrs. Wentz finished with that mother's intuition of hers. Patrick only sobbed in response. Silence fell over the room as she thought for a moment, the pounding of the rain on the window filling it softly. "Well…" she finally continued. "Did you know that Pete loved you? And Joe and Andy?"
Patrick paused. He thought, really thought about that for a moment, though it was painful. No, the four of them hadn't had a real conversation in several years. But in that time, he had received subtle signs from his friends. Short phone calls congratulating him on his album, silly post cards in the mail during the holidays.
And that one text from Pete, a concrete attempt to reach out, even after all this time.
Back then, Patrick had looked at it all quite unfavorably, as polite pleasantries at best. Now though, he let himself consider the fact that they could have been something more, desperate attempts to reach across the giant chasm that was Fall Out Boy's hiatus.
Patrick hesitated.
"Yes…" he finally squeaked out, voice soft and watery and Mrs. Wentz squeezed his wrist tight.
"Well then, I'm sure your friends knew you loved them as well. Deep down…"
Patrick still didn't know, even after thinking it through. He'd been such an awful person to his bandmates that he had a hard time believing it. But he let himself do it in the moment, if only because the oh-so gentle, oh-so soft Mrs. Wentz had lent the idea credibility. He let himself imagine Pete writing lyrics, Joe writing riffs, in preparation for when they would come together as Fall Out Boy again. Them thinking of him, worrying about him in their last moments, whatever those may have looked like…
"I want to know what happened to them…"
The words came unbidden. Patrick hadn't even realized he'd said them until he heard Mrs. Wentz's breath hitch. He sat up, eyes wide, heart lurching in his chest. He'd broken her rule…
I… I'm so sorry," Patrick said hastily. He gazed worriedly at Mrs. Wentz who sat on the bed, shaking, face in her hands. "I… I swear, it just slipped out! But that's no excuse, I shouldn't have said anything-"
"No," Pete's mother said suddenly, cutting him off. Slowly, she shook her head. "No, I was wrong to ban the subject."
"But-"
"You're reasonable for wanting to know," she continued, now looking back up at him. Her deep brown eyes (God, they looked so much like Pete's) were filled with unshed tears. "You and everyone else who won't shut up about it. I personally…" Mrs. Wentz stopped. She choked up a little, then took a moment to collect herself and sighed. "I personally can't go through the stress of worrying. Not when we don't even have so much as a single clue…"
"I have clues," Patrick said, again, without thinking, but all of a sudden, he realized he was desperate to talk about what he'd seen at the cemetery. "At… at the funeral…" he said, feeling strangely out of breath. "Standing at the wall there were these two girls…"
"Patrick, there were a lot of girls at the funeral," Mrs. Wentz drawled, of course, referring to the fan girls.
"No, no, I'm not talking about them," Patrick said. He almost sat on his knees before remembering they were caked in mud, so he simply crossed his legs instead. "There were… there were these two girls dressed like us. Like they were invited to the funeral, and they had like, these symbols on their chests," Patrick gestured to the corresponding body part. "And it was like, a music note, with a cross through it…"
Patrick trailed off as he took note of Mrs. Wentz's expression, brow furrowed, a deep frown on her face. Her expression was confused, pitying. His heart sank. "You don't believe me…" he muttered.
"Patrick, I-"
"I'm not lying to you!" Patrick said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I swear, I'm not lying to you, Mrs. Wentz, what reason would I have to do that? Please don't do that to me today, Mrs. Wentz, please, please, trust me." Patrick's voice was frantic, pleading, as it cracked with despair. "I swear, I wasn't seeing anything! There were these two girls, or, women, they threatened me, I'm sure of it! They implied that they'd killed Pete and Joe-"
"STOP!!"
Patrick did stop; eyes wide as Mrs. Wentz pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Immediately he realized his mistake. In stating his interpretation of the women's actions, he had outlined a concrete cause of death for her son. Well, as concrete as a theory could be, anyway. Patrick deflated. "I'm sorry…" he said weakly, a lame excuse for an apology, even lamer because he'd already used that exact combination of words for her just a few minutes before.
Patrick expected her to shout at him, perhaps even to demand that he leave (and he would've happily done so, honestly). Instead, she swallowed, shook her head and collected herself which was quite a bit worse for his own guilt than if she'd just reprimanded him.
"I'm going to go check on the other guests downstairs," Mrs. Wentz said at last, her voice worryingly even, considering what they'd just been talking about. "You're welcome to join us, Patrick. I know everyone would be glad to see that you're alright."
With that, she left, though she kept the door ajar behind her. Once again, the only sounds in the room were the rain and the repast happening downstairs. Patrick remained on the bed, feeling like both a shit person and a lonely person. Well, you're going to have to get used to the feeling quite a bit now that Fall Out Boy is gone, he thought to himself bitterly. He sighed heavily. A moment later, he gathered up his socks, shoes and jacket and prepared to join everyone else downstairs.
On his way down the hall, a sharp noise caught Patrick's attention. It had come from Pete's old bedroom, he realized, though with all the modern preschool toys scattered about it was clear that Beau was the one who used this room most during visits to his grandparents' house.
Patrick tried not to focus on the shelf of vintage toys or the band posters on the wall and instead on Phoenix, who was settling on her perch after just having taken a little flight around the room. She turned to Patrick and stared at him the way she did before at the wake, with that very human way of knowing.
Patrick swallowed. "The service was very beautiful," he told Phoenix. He got nothing in response but a blank stare. He didn't even know why he'd felt compelled to talk to the bird anyway. Perhaps its staring just made things so supremely awkward that he felt he had to fill the dead air with something. Whatever the reason, he kept going.
"There were some very good eulogies given…" Patrick adjusted his collar. "Hell, even Dirty gave one. That was a surprisingly nice one. Did Pete tell you who Dirty was…?"
Phoenix blinked, said nothing, continued to give Patrick that piercing stare.
"Sorry you couldn't come…" Patrick said. He cleared his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets. "Beau tried to bring you. He was brave at the funeral… so brave…" Braver than I was, anyway, Patrick thought bitterly. A pause. "If it makes you feel any better, they didn't bring Hemmingway either…"
Squawk. Patrick flinched. Phoenix's cries were loud and high pitched, as piercing as his stares. Patrick shivered. Apparently that tidbit didn't make him feel better.
He had to stop talking to this creepy bird, anyway. He was procrastinating going downstairs. "Nice talking to you too," Patrick muttered, and he turned around and rushed down the stairs. Phoenix the falcon, the last puzzle of Pete Wentz.
How fitting that Patrick would never be able to solve it.
Patrick more so felt, rather than heard the hush that fell over the room when he finally entered the living room. It went just as soon as it came but the quick glances his way, like they were trying to resist looking at him, the whispers of concern and worry felt like they lasted minutes instead of seconds. Patrick felt the heart rise to his face. All these people saw me faint in public, he couldn't help thinking. All these people saw me make a complete fool of myself in front of several grieving families.
"Patrick," someone said, touching his arm and he wasn't proud of the way he flinched before he realized that it was Elisa. Gently, she turned his face towards her. "Are you feeling better now?" she asked softly.
"A little," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
"Well, as long as you're alright…"
Patrick felt a pang of guilt in his heart. God, he must have frightened her so much. More than anyone else here. He nodded, awkwardly scratched his head. "Um… I should probably tell everyone else I'm alright…"
"Of course. Need me to come with?" Patrick said nothing, only nodded. So, Elisa offered her arm, and he held onto it tightly as they weaved through the repast crowd.
It was awful. Everyone, the family, the friends, fellow musicians wouldn't stop looking at Patrick with those sad, sad eyes, as if he were something to pity. They weren't far wrong he supposed. After all, his three best friends had just been buried in the ground. It was a fate that Patrick wouldn't wish on anyone.
Only one person didn't gaze at Patrick with that special look, and it was probably because he was getting a fair bit of looks himself. Mikey Way stood near the corner of the room, nursing a cup of tea in his hands and keeping to himself as his brother stood next to him, shooting the evil eye to anyone who so much as looked somewhat strangely at his brother. Their fascination with Mikey wasn't incomprehensible to Patrick, he couldn't imagine a position more awkward and yet more interesting than the former not-quite boyfriend of one of the deceased.
"Hey, Patrick," Gerard said as he and Elisa approached. "You feeling alright?"
"Better," he lied. "You?"
"Could be doing worse, I suppose," Gerard said, shrugging. "I'm sorry for your loss, by the way."
"You too…"
"Yeah, but… you were closer to them… all of them…"
Patrick shook his head. "Well, yes, but it's not just my loss, it's everyone's… and I made it all about me."
"You didn't do that," Mikey said, his first contribution since the conversation had started.
"Didn't I? I frightened everyone…"
"We don't care," Gerard said. "They were your bandmates, dude, your brothers. I think if anyone deserved to faint at this funeral, it was you." Patrick shrugged and made a noncommittal noise.
"This is so fucked up," Mikey said, his voice heavy. "We shouldn't even be here, doing all of this, but now Fall Out Boy is completely gone… and we don't even understand why…"
"I know," Gerard agreed. "I just don't understand who would want to hurt them. All they were doing was making music."
"Mrs. Wentz said we shouldn't talk about this," Patrick muttered.
"I know…" Mikey said, and he sighed. "But I can't stop thinking about it, ever since I heard the news. There's just… something so wrong about all of this… why them? Why now?"
"Maybe some rabid fan got fed up with the hiatus…" Patrick said sourly. It was (mostly) meant to be a joke, but of course, no one laughed. Even Gerard and Mikey couldn't help but shoot him pitying looks. Everyone knew at this point that he's pushed for Fall Out Boy to take a break.
"I guarantee you, that's not what happened, Patrick," Elisa said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "None of this is your fault at all."
"Besides, I have a hard time believing a fan would've gotten away with it like the murderer has…" Mikey speculated. "The police can't find a single trace of who did it. And there wasn't a single clue as to what happened. No blood, no sign of forced entry. Nothing."
"Oh, you know the police are practically useless," Gerard said.
"Still…" Mikey said, shrugging. Gerard sighed. They looked like the picture of hopelessness. Unlike Mrs. Wentz, they clearly hungered for answers, needed them for closure, like Patrick did. He considered telling them about what he'd seen at the cemetery. Perhaps they'd be more responsive than Pete's mother…?
"Actually, I saw something strange at the funeral…" Patrick said, cautiously. "Before I fainted?"
"What?" Gerard asked. He and Mikey's eyes were wide. Curiosity was written all over their faces. Even Elisa, who hadn't spoken much, furrowed her brow in interest.
"Um… yeah, actually. Well, the memory's a bit hazy and now that it's been a while, it might not have even been real, it was pretty crazy…"
"We've seen crazy before," Mikey said. "Try us." Patrick looked up at him, saw the determined expressions on his and his brother's faces.
"Um, alright, well…" Patrick hesitated. "Well, at the funeral, before I fainted, I saw these two women. Not like, the fans hovering at the wall. They had umbrellas and were dressed in black like us. And they had these weird insignias. Like, a music note with a cross through it…?"
Patrick trailed off as he caught sight of Elisa's expression. She was gazing at him wide-eyed with her mouth open, as if he'd told her he'd seen a talking unicorn at the funeral instead. The Way brothers reactions on the other hand, were a lot more stranger, more subdued. They exchanged a glance – one full of meaning, Patrick could tell, even without knowing what the meaning was – then looked back to him. "It sounds like a pair of witches," Gerard finally said, the tone of his voice rather matter-of-fact.
Patrick and Elisa blinked. "What?" she asked.
Gerard seemed to have realized what he said because he blinked rapidly and said, "Oh, nothing. Uh, I was just…" Mikey sighed deeply.
"Look, there are probably a lot of people who want to make sure you're alright," he told Patrick. "How about you keep making the rounds. Or, uh, get something to eat… I can tell Mrs. Wentz worked hard on the food, despite everything…"
"Well, alright…" Patrick muttered, though the Way brothers didn't even say to hear them. He and Elisa watched them disappear into the repast crowd, deeply confused. Patrick could've sworn he heard Mikey whisper something else about witches to his brother as they left.
Elisa looked at Patrick, brow furrowed. "Did you really see those two strange women at the funeral?" she asked, hesitantly. "Like, really see them."
"Honestly, probably not," Patrick said, shaking his head. "I was dizzy and not thinking straight. I was probably seeing things…"
"But-"
"Look, I'm sort of tired. I… I think it's just best if we go home now..."
Elisa seemed taken aback by this sudden request but nodded her head. "Alright," she said, taking his hand again with a sympathetic expression. "We'll head home now. I'll let Mrs. Wentz know we're leaving." Patrick nodded, relieved. Thank goodness. Between the bird, the women and the Way brothers, this had to be the strangest funeral he'd ever been to.
The rain had slowed to a light drizzle by the time Elisa and Patrick left the Wentz household and as they drove home the sun began to peek through the clouds. Patrick felt it was quite disrespectful of the sun to show up at all, considering what day it was, but he supposed the happy people in Chicago needed weather too.
Elisa drove, of course, as she was still quite worried about him. He supposed that was what he deserved after his little episode during the service though he wasn't too fond of her constantly asking if he was alright. Still, he appreciated her looking out for him and he liked when she took his hand and rubbed small, soothing circles in them with her thumb. She pulled up in front of Patrick's driveway and stopped.
"Okay, babe, I've got a few quick errands to run this evening but as soon as I finish, I'll come right back to you." Elisa gazed intently at Patrick. "Will you be alright on your own for a little while?"
Patrick almost pointed out that he was twenty-seven years old and thus, more than capable of being alright on his own. Then he decided that he'd been more than mean enough to Pete's mother at the funeral, so he just said, "Yes, I'll be fine."
Good," Elisa said. "I won't be long, Patrick, I promise."
Wit that, Patrick climbed out of the car and watched as Elisa gently rolled away. He turned to go back into the house, stopping at the mailbox on the way as he'd noticed the little flag was up. He opened it and flipped through the contents with dull eyes. Bills, mostly, though he recognized two return addresses as Kasey and Michael's, two members of the band from his solo tour. He didn't even have to open the little black envelopes to know their contents. Patrick appreciated their condolences, really, he did. But he just didn't have the heart (or let's be honest, the stomach) for those sorts of messages right now. He was sure that if he had to hear one more "sorry for your loss," after today he was going to scream.
Patrick was tucking the envelopes under his arms, preparing to go inside when he heard something hit the mailbox. He looked up, down, across the street blankly, half expecting some little kid with a baseball bat to appear, gazing up at him with the same, stupid expression. But Patrick saw no such kid and when his gaze circled back to the mailbox, he saw Phoenix sitting there, her deep brown feathers shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. She still looked at Patrick as if attempting to pierce through his very heart and soul. Naturally, it rooted him to the spot.
Oh, Patrick thought, blinking.
Hello, Phoenix thought back.