Chapter Text
So far, it was a good day.
The barista you liked was on her shift today, so all you had to do was a few simple signs and she was making your usual. What was her name again? Eh, you would remember it next time you came around.
You walked down the street in the crisp autumn air, your coffee clutched against your chest. You quietly tapped the beats in Uma Thurman against your thigh. You had watched enough concert footage and done so much lip-syncing you could imagine the words and rhythm in your head. You were not about to let your trashy ears ruin the experience of their music for you.
A gust of chilly air brushed past you, causing a shiver to run down your spine. You pulled your jacket further over yourself and kept walking. You quietly sipped your latte, enjoying the warmth that spread through your body at the familiar taste.
You felt a vibration against your thigh’s pocket. Continuous, not just a single buzz. Who would be calling you? Everyone that would contact you knew you were deaf. You pulled your phone out of your pocket, glancing down at the caller ID. An unsaved number you didn’t recognize. You hesitated, then set it back in your pocket and kept walking.
You winced a little as it stopped. You’d text the number when you got home, you reasoned in your head, walking a little quicker. Your phone remained still almost the whole time, until a small, singular buzz vibrated against your thigh when you were almost home. You stepped inside, kicked your shoes off by the door, took off your jacket and scarf, and pulled out your phone, taking another delightful sip of your coffee as you read the text.
Something about an interview for a job… oh yeah, you had signed up for that, hadn’t you? Pay was good, and you had nothing better to do. You texted back, apologizing for not answering the first time, and agreed to meet that afternoon, since you were rather close to where the interview was being held.
After a small back and forth with the unknown texter, you set your phone down and grabbed a book. You leaned back in your rocking chair, setting your coffee down. You wanted to read just a few more chapters.
Well, just a few more chapters turned into the rest of the book. You sighed. You had just picked that one up not even two days ago! You were gonna have to stop by the library on your way back from the interview. You glanced up at the time. An hour until the interview. Well, it didn’t hurt to be ready a little early, did it?
You stood up, trodding off to your room. You reviewed the man’s previous texts for a bit, before ultimately deciding casual with some extra effort would be the best choice of dress. You moved to your closet, pushing it open and digging through your drawers.
You shrugged and pulled out one of your more well-maintained Fall Out Boy t-shirts, laying out on the bed, and a pair of well kept (and your only pair of non-ripped) black jeans, laying them beside it. You reached back into the depths of your closet and pulled out your ironing board, setting it up by the window.
You walked off to your bathroom, brushing your hand against the framed picture of Pete Wentz on the bathroom counter. He was your eyeliner inspiration, forever and always, and it didn’t hurt to have a reference on hand all the time. Besides, the picture was facing the wall, not the shower or the toilet, not like it was creepy.
You grabbed your iron from your bathroom closet – you really should organize it better, you noted – before returning to your room, plugging it into the wall and settling it on the ironing board as you let it heat up. You laid your t-shirt on it, front down, letting it sit there as you slowly dragged the iron along it, pressing your shirt into a very pleasant, smooth texture.
Once you were done with your shirt, you set it on the bed and brought your pants up, repeating the gentle yet firm motions until both were looking brand new. Proud, you turned off your iron and put it away. Once the iron and the ironing board were settled in their proper spots, you got changed into the newly ironed clothes.
You walked off to the bathroom, pulling out your eyeliner pen and slowly dragging it along the edges of your eye, careful not to get it in your eye. You had to glance down at Pete’s framed picture a few times, making sure your eyeliner matched. After a few small adjustments, you nodded in contentment.
Setting the eyeliner back down, you glanced down at the time. Forty-five minutes left. You thought for a few moments, then decided ultimately that you’d review guitar chords. With measured steps, you reached your room, pushing open the door.
With a small smile, you picked up your guitar. You re-checked the guitar book, attempting a few basic chords. You had no way to know if it was being played properly or not, so you contended yourself with it. Glancing up at the clock, you checked the time. 13:43. Roughly a half hour to the interview.
You grabbed your jacket, pulled your hood on, and threw your phone in your pocket, walking off. You knew what street the small studio was on, so that was enough to find your way.
The walk was quick, taking maybe ten minutes, whereas you were anticipating closer to twenty. Well, better early than late, you thought offhandedly. You pushed open the door to the studio, stepping inside.
You froze in the doorway. Jaw went slack, eyes practically bulged out of your head. There was a man standing in the studio, presumably tuning a guitar, and he looked all too familiar. Though he was a little shorter than you imagined him to be.
You blinked once. Twice. Pinched yourself. Yep, it hurt. Definitely real. You could barely think.
He looked up, smiled, and waved.
Either you were hallucinating, or you just got a job interview with Patrick Stump himself.
After a few more seconds, you composed yourself. You nodded to him, stepping inside and closing the door. He said something, but you couldn’t hear him. You offered a few basic signs, and it was his turn to freeze up.
It was kind of cute, his sudden realization that you couldn’t hear him. His eyes were wide, shocked. You smiled and shrugged, already reaching for the guitar he was tuning. You made a motion with your hands, like opening a book, signaling you needed the chords written down order to play them.
He finally started moving again, shuffling some papers around to find something. He pulled out a green guitar book, passing it to you. He opened it to the page that had the rhythm guitar part for Centuries. He was skeptical, but he would never not give someone a chance.
After a small fingering to remind yourself of where the chords were, and you wordlessly played the rhythms you read. You didn’t know if you succeeded or failed miserably, you were just focused solely on playing the chords on the guitar in your hands.
Judging from Patrick’s impressed look when you glanced up, you could only assume you were playing it at least half decently. You finished the part and set the guitar down gently. You offered a nervous smile at him, fidgeting. He smiled back.
You sat there without bothering to communicate for a few seconds before you offered a hesitant basic sign. Nothing much – I mean, it was literally just “Hello.” He paused, thinking, before doing it back, a little clunky. That’s okay. You smiled, nodded politely, and, after he didn’t stop you, you left.
After that meeting, you were anxious. You always had your phone touching you, nervously awaiting the tell-tale vibration of a text from him. He did say in the advertisement that he would still send a text even if you didn’t get the part, so you knew you’d get one either way. You just hoped you’d done decent.
By the time you’d gotten the text back from Patrick (you had changed his contact, now that you knew who he was), you had already had three mini-heart attacks from other people casually texting you. You crossed your fingers and opened the text, almost afraid to look. To your relief, it wasn’t a denial. It was a short acceptance, along with a small note acknowledging your deafness. Nice.
You breathed a heavy sigh of relief and set your phone down after sending a text back. You’d gotten the job. Getting to tour with the band for months, getting to play guitar for such a big band, and getting to meet Fall Out Boy. Literally any fan’s DREAM. You were giddy, just a little.
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The next day, you woke up, practiced your guitar for a little bit, and threw on some casual clothes. You went out for a walk. You had some pocket money left still, maybe you’d go grab another coffee. Hopefully the nice girl was on her shift again today.
You made a detour in your normal walk, heading to the coffee shop. You stepped in, already looking around for the familiar blonde girl. You locked eyes with an adorable short man instead. You waved. Patrick waved back. You ordered quickly, then walked over to “talk” to him.
You smiled and mimicked the “hello” you had signed to him yesterday. To your delight, he did it back, though still a little off. Still, it was the thought that counted. He smiled shyly at you.
While you were waiting for your coffee, you taught Patrick a few more signs, mostly basics. You did the sign, let him copy, then typed out the meaning on your Notes app and showed him what he had just learned. After only maybe a minute, he nudged you and pointed. You followed his gaze, confused.
Oh. You were so engrossed in talking to Patrick that you forgot about your coffee, which was now sitting in the pick-up area. You flushed and quickly went to go pick it up. Once it was sitting warmly in your palm, the weight a comfort, you returned to Patrick’s table.
He was on the phone, it seemed, considering his mouth was moving with nobody in foreseeable range and he was holding something up to the other side of his head. You hesitated, then offered a quick wave and left.
You didn’t look back as you walked home.