The Last of the Real Ones || a Patrick Stump AU ||

fourteen

Patrick couldn't tell who was more distraught from the news: himself or his mother. Ever since he had told her, she had been babying him all over again, asking if he needed anything. If anything, Patrick wanted to forget how it all felt. He didn't want to feel anything.

He had distracted himself from any memory through practicing more music and even doing research in the producing business. If he couldn't create the songs, at least he would be an influence and a hand in helping someone create theirs. He worked more hours at the record shop he was committed to.

Every now and then, Nia would cross his path. She crossed his mind more times than she had crossed his paths. There was no anger between the former couple as she went around town, making amends, ending connections, and putting Chicago on hold. They only exchanged friendly smiles much like strangers do in their suburban town. Once in a while, they would trade a wave. But they always went for a subtle nod and a smile.

Patrick still longed for the stars to trace shapes into his pale skin. He tried to replace it with injecting music through his callousing fingertips. He did everything he could to keep his mind busy. He would even force himself to speak to a stranger just for conversation. Nia's voice was an earwig. Her laugh rang through his head, the way she says certain words that make her already-subtle Chicagoan accent more prominent. He just wanted a minor distraction.

"Patrick?" his mother proposes, peering into the boy's room as he fumbles with chords on his acoustic guitar. Patrick looks up from his notebook, meeting his mother's attention.

"Are you going to be there when Nia boards?" she asks, her voice hesitant and gentle. His insides stir uncomfortably at the tone. He doesn't want to be treated like he is made of glass anymore. The first week after the breakup was fine, but the second week made it even more real than it was before.

"Yeah," Patrick answers, his voice voided of any hurt or sadness. His mother knits her brows worriedly.
"Are you going to be okay? The both of you?" she asks.
"Yeah," he repeats, the tone duplicating itself. "We're on good terms, Mom. We made sure of that."
"Do you at least miss her?" she questions. They both knew the answer; she just wanted him to admit it. Patrick had already admitted it to himself several times. He just didn't want to dwell on it anymore. It would only hurt like it did in the beginning.

"I'll be there, Mom," he huffs before returning to his guitar. He sees his mother disappear from his doorway, her footsteps fading as he picks a random tune with the strings at his fingers. He sets the instrument down, sufficing with getting ready to leave the house to bid Nia farewell for good.

Patrick hated airports. There were too many people in one cramped space, all of them possessing different emotions towards being in the air for transportation. It ranged from pure anxiety to some level of joy and excitement. Plus, each section of the building always made him feel cold. Patrick had developed the habit of wearing a hoodie or a denim jacket whenever visiting the O'Hare Airport. Out of instinct, he went to his closet and searched for his Ghostbusters hoodie.

While fishing through all of his jackets, Patrick finds it to be missing. Then, he recalls the night of the breakup. Nia wore it and he never got it back. Instead, he let her keep it. Patrick shakes his head, wanting to escape anymore memories of Nia. Too many hits off one or more memory would only make him spiral. No one wanted that.

The blonde grabs the first sweater that his hand grasps around and he slips it on. He gathers his essentials, stuffing them in his pockets. He locates a faux velvet box on his nightstand and stashes it safely in his jacket pocket before making his way out of his bedroom. As he travels to his car, he stops in his tracks and turns towards the garage. Patrick studies the space, then walks towards it.