"How'd you sleep?" Joe asked that morning in the kitchen.
"Terribly," Pete said gloomily.
"Was it the couch or was it a nightmare?" Joe said, taking a sip of coffee.
"Nightmare," Pete said.
"What about?"
Pete described the nightmare.
Joe stayed silent for a while, clearly thinking it through. Pete stared at the counter, warming his hands on his coffee cup but neglecting to take a sip.
"You know what I think, Pete?" Joe said eventually.
Pete looked up at Joe.
"I think if you tell Patrick about your dream, he might just believe you. I was talking to Andy around six this morning and he says Pat was writing until two in the morning."
"But Patrick normally writes only when he's feeling some sort of extreme emotion, like when he's fuming, or when he's breaking down, or when he misses—" Pete broke off, his eyes widening.
Joe nodded. "When he misses something."
Pete looked down at his cup of coffee. As he sighed, it created ripples on the dark surface. He finally looked up at Joe. "I'll go this afternoon. If he was up till two, he'll need to sleep."
"That's my man," Joe said, hitting his shoulder gently. Pete grinned halfheartedly, but his eyes didn't see the cup in front of him anymore. They saw Patrick, pale and lifeless, lying in that awful white coffin.
Joe left the room and Pete was left with his coffee, which was now growing cold.
Patrick woke to a knock on his door. He glanced at the clock. Three in the afternoon. Brilliant. He got up and stumbled to the door, running a hand through his crazy hair, trying to tame it a little bit. He opened the door, and there stood none other that Pete Wentz.
"Hey," Patrick mumbled, still half-asleep. Pete hid a grin.
"Can I talk to you?" Pete asked.
"Sure," Patrick said, stepping aside. "Come on in."
Pete walked past him into the living room they'd been in together so many times, watching a movie, eating too much, or just talking. He sat down in a chair and motioned for Patrick to sit in one as well.
As soon as Patrick sat down, Pete launched into a description of the dream. When he reached the part where Patrick's dead body came in, he took a deep breath and said, "And I looked in the open coffin…and you were in there, and your face was pale and your eyes were open and you had a little smudge of blood on the corner of your mouth—" at this, Patrick brought his fingers up to his mouth subconsciously, and Pete continued, "—and you were dead, Patrick, and I freaked because I was so sure it would be like that in real life," Pete finished, leaning back in his chair.
Patrick stared at Pete as though seeing him in a whole new light. "So you dreamed about all of us…dead…you can draw, right?"
The question came out of the blue, and Pete rolled with it. "Yeah, pretty good, actually."
Patrick disappeared into the next room, and came back with a sketch pad and a pencil. He handed them both to Pete. "Start drawing."
An hour later, Pete was done. He had drawn Patrick so well that it looked like a black-and-white photograph. At a couple of points Pete asked for coloured pencils, and Patrick now saw why. Pete had only coloured Patrick's bright green eyes and the blood on his mouth. Other than that, the picture was colourless.
Patrick leaned over Pete's shoulder to look at the drawing. He sucked in a breath. That looked like him. It so looked like him. Patrick was looking at a picture of his own dead body, and it scared him, knowing Pete had dreamed so vividly he could draw this well hours after the fact.
"Pete," Patrick said quietly.
"Yeah?" Pete asked, still looking down at the paper.
"What do you want to hear?" Patrick asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, an apology, 'I believe you,' what?"
"I just want you to promise," Pete said after a beat, "that that particular dream doesn't come true."
"I don't plan for it to, Pete Wentz," Patrick said bravely.
"Good."
Patrick held out his fist to Pete, and Pete immediately bumped it with his own.
"Grab your jacket, Wentz, we're hitting the town," Patrick said after a beat.
"Wait, what?" Pete asked.
"You heard me," said Patrick mischievously, running his hand through his hair. "I have a plan."
"And there they are, the four most terrifying words in the universe," Pete joked, but grabbed his jacket and pulled it on nonetheless.
Patrick disappeared in his room and came back out with a different outfit on, dark jeans, a light grey Green Day tee, a leather jacket, his favourite grey fedora, and a pair of combat boots with the leather worn and soft and peeling away in places.
I need to get him some new boots for Christmas, Pete thought.
"Let's go," Patrick said, and walked out the door, Pete trailing behind him.
"Where are we even going, Patrick?" Pete asked, jogging a little to catch up with him.
Patrick grinned mischievously. "You'll see."
Patrick led Pete all the way to downtown Chicago, about half a mile from Patrick's house, and down a busy street. Patrick had a determined look on his face as he pushed through the crowd, and when he finally stopped, Pete was panting.
In front of them stood Ricky's Guitar Shop, its neon sign dark in places, the walls of the store covered almost completely in guitars of every colour.
"Remember how you broke the string on your bass a week ago?" Patrick asked.
"Patrick Stump," was all Pete could say, and together, they walked inside.
Patrick walked up to the counter and said, "My friend is looking for a new bass guitar."
The man at the counter pointed to the far corner of the store, and rows of bass guitars of blue and red and silver and tons more colours lined the wall.
Pete walked over to the basses and stared up at all of them. He grinned happily as Patrick walked up to join him.
"What colour should I get?" Pete asked.
"I was thinking of getting a white electric guitar, so white's an idea," Patrick said, then pointed to a black guitar with golden flames along the bottom. "That one's really cool."
"Yeah, it is. It looks expensive, though," Pete said solemnly, sure he couldn't get it.
Patrick grinned. "It's on me."
Pete stared at him in awe.
They were interrupted by an employee. He had all-over-the-place black hair, and dark grey eyes, and he wore a leather jacket, black jeans, a Black Veil Brides tee, and combat boots that looked even more beat-up than Patrick's. He looked a few years younger than Patrick and Pete, about nineteen.
"Can I help you?" he said, his tone bored and tired, as if he'd been working hard.
"Yes, sir," Patrick said politely. "How much is that guitar, the one with the golden flames?"
"That one?" the boy said, his eyes drifting up to the guitar. "I think that one's about six hundred. It's been used…twice, I think. It's hard to keep track of all these."
"Ah," Patrick replied, looking around the room. "That's entirely believable."
The boy let out a dry chuckle. "So do you want it?"
Patrick bit his lip. "Yeah. Yes please," he corrected.
The boy smiled. "I'll get the stepladder."
About twenty minutes later, both Patrick and Pete carried brand new guitar cases down the street, walking back into Patrick's house. When they walked through the living room, Patrick leaned to the side and subtly turned over the drawing pad so Pete's drawing couldn't be seen.
Pete set his guitar down on the floor. Patrick set his next to Pete's. They both sat on the couch, and Pete started The Avengers.
Hours later, Pete picked up his guitar and walked home. Patrick shut the door and clicked off the TV, filling the living room with darkness, save the area near the open window. Patrick yawned, pulling off his boots and falling into bed.
He awoke at three in the morning to a crash coming from his kitchen. He sat up, leaning out his bedroom door, looking around the hallway.
He heard quiet, female voices coming from the kitchen. Burglars?
He crept out quietly from his room, picking up a crowbar that Joe had brought to his house one day for absolutely no reason at all, and tiptoed to the kitchen, being careful to stay in the shadows.
There were three girls gathered around the island, talking in hushed voices, holding daggers. Patrick sucked in a nervous breath, and one of the girls jerked her head up.
Patrick swore inside his head. His grip tightened on the crowbar. The girl was now coming towards him. She looked like she didn't see him, then, without warning, she whirled around and stabbed him directly in the stomach.
Patrick gasped in pain. The dagger felt white-hot on his skin, and blood began to pool out of his stomach and stain his shirt. He slowly fell to his knees and the last thing he saw was a girl smirking down at him.