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Being the leading vocalist hadn’t been Patrick’s goal at all. There was something so visceral about singing that twisted his guts, a whirlpool of nausea pressing against his limits when it came to using his most intimate instrument. It wasn’t his most polished skill; he much preferred the beat of the battery, performing his heartbeat outside his body and keeping alive the creature that was their band from the safety of his throne behind the drums.
If being the drummer made him the band's heart, the others made up the ribs that encased and protected him. As the vocalist, he was bare and soft in the eyes of the beholder.
Patrick pushed down the brim of his trucker hat and cleared his throat, trying to ignore the tremble of his hand. The fingers of his other hand tightened on the neck of his guitar, the strings cutting into his fingertips with a slight pinch at the pressure. He turned his head enough to cast a mournful side-eye to the drumset Andy commanded, half-tempted to scurry over and beg to take over. He faced forward again, feeling sick at the sight of the mingling crowd forming in front of the stage they were sound-checking on.
Nobody was even paying particularly close attention to him, chattering amongst themselves and waving their arms to reunite with friends as people trickled into the dimly lit venue. The pits of his t-shirt were moist with his nervous sweating. Logically, Patrick knew nobody cared, if they noticed at all, but he was half-convinced every other laugh and smile was a kid making fun of his sweat stains.
Patrick rolled his lips into his mouth and turned to his left, unaware he was looking for Pete but paradoxically relaxing and tensing up as he made eye contact with the prick. The prick that landed him center stage. The prick who sent him a thumbs up and a wide grin, teeth gleaming in the hot, harsh stage lights of the venue. Patrick tried to smile back and felt his mouth and chin scrunch in despair at best. Pete’s grin sharpened with amusement.
Not for the first time, not for the last time, Patrick wished Pete would grow his hair out from the buzzcut sported. So he could grab a handful of his hair and beat his head against the disgusting, sticky stage floor.
Forcing his mouth and chin to relax as best as he could, Patrick faced forward again, moving his fingers into position on the fretboard to idly check the tuning on a random chord. He chanced a peak into the crowd from under the shadows of his lowered brim and felt his ass tense as he noted the crowd had doubled in size, not full but getting there. His eyes flickered here and there and away, desperately avoiding people’s eyes. Fuck. He wished so desperately he was in Andy’s position, confidence boosted by the support of the drum throne and the cathartic violence of pounding those fucking drumsticks down as he imagined beating Pete Wentz’s face in.
“You doin’ okay?”
Patrick jerked away, taking half a step forward to put distance between his flushed ear and Pete’s quiet but carefully enunciated question. “Peachy,” He forced between clenched teeth.
“I’m sensing a little bit of dishonesty. C’mon, man,” Pete jostled him with his pointy elbows, grinning like a madman. His brown face was warmed with an overheated flush and glittered with a sheen of sweat. Patrick felt his insides twist in a different direction. “This is gonna be awesome. You’re gonna do great. We’re gonna be awesome. The kids’ll love it, I feel it.”
Patrick jerked his head sharply, not quite nodding but not shaking his head no either. And maybe he moved too fast because his stance faltered coming out of the movement, knees buckling for a flash of a moment as the edges of his vision went dark and he felt like the ground ceased to exist under his feet.
“Whoa!” Pete slapped a hand on his shoulder to steady him out, swaying Patrick’s sweaty frame in his direction briefly until Patrick sucked in a ragged breath and shut his eyes hard.
He centered himself out, blinking his eyes rapidly until his vision was regular venue-dim and not about-to-pass-out dark. “Fuck, sorry, I’m good.”
Pete shook him with the big hand still on his shoulder. “You sure? Do you need water?”
Most definitely. But Patrick didn’t think he could keep anything down in the current moment nor in the foreseeable future. Not until he was safe at home, AC blasting in his face as he rocked a sense of safety and privacy back into himself. And maybe until after he punched Pete so hard in the gut that his small intestine bruised.
He swallowed the threat of bile that burned at his throat and shook his head. “I’ll manage.”
Pete bounced on his feet a few times, head tilted doubtfully. Patrick suffered and sweat under his stare for a few beats until the guy shrugged and let go of his shoulder with one last slap. “If you’re sure, man.”
“Yeah,” Patrick’s voice cracked. But he doubted Pete heard it because he was already bouncing away, beaming smile directed into the crowd as he greeted familiar faces and shouted compliments at people in the crowd Patrick didn’t have the headspace to track. An odd tension zapped through his chest as he noted the ease with which Pete addressed the crowd, the graceless but charming way he threw himself around the stage and wove between Patrick and Joe to work the stage.
Not for the first time, not for the last time, Patrick questioned why Pete hadn’t chosen to be the leading vocalist for Fall Out Boy. It was clear he loved the performance involved with being the frontman. Why push Patrick into the spotlight when he so clearly soaked up the attention like a flower to sunlight?
Pete was an enigma and the only way Patrick could think to figure him out was to crack him open like a geode. But the police frowned upon violence and Patrick didn’t want to make his parents bail him out of jail. For now, he would have to just grimace and bear it, hat low on his brow, daydreaming of being nestled behind the safety of the drums.