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It had been luck, more than anything. All of this, it had just been luck. Sure, talent was a part of it, sure, talent was necessary for luck to even stand a chance, but luck was most of it. This tiny-little Chicago based underground pop-punk band had made it. These four lads, these four, unseeming boys had the privilege to stand before thousands, thousands of people and play their music. And those people wanted to hear their music. That was the best of it. The audience wanted them there. And as Andy smashed his drums and Joe poured his soul into his guitar, Pete walked over to his friend, his best friend, and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He barely registered the crowd's reaction, he was lost in the smell of Patrick Stump, the only smell that reminded him to cling to sanity and prevented him from spiraling into hopeless light-headedness, that reminded him of an underground club somewhere back at home, the musty, smokey air of a cramped, dark room. And here they were now.
Patrick didn't respond to Pete's affectionate proximity, not visibly, anyway. But Pete could feel the tension leave the muscles straining in his neck as he pressed his cheek against them, in an attempt to cling onto reality. He mindlessly plucked the strings of his P-bass, hitting the notes that were so familiar to him, he could have played them in his sleep. They were all good at this, every single one of them. Joe competently slid his fingers along the fret board of his Fender, Andy hadn't fallen out of rhythm for as long as Pete could remember, reliably giving them guidance, never slipping up. And Patrick... Patrick's left hand gripped the neck of his Gretsch firmly as he belted out notes that Pete still couldn't quite believe came out of that tiny body. That small person that held so much brightness and even more shadow. That's why he'd written it, not only as a promise to never leave again, but as a reminder that Patrick Stump wasn't only his best friend, but a truly great man. And, more importantly, a truly good man, despite what he may think of himself.
He'd cried the first time he read the lyrics. Patrick cried a lot back then. To be honest, Pete had cried himself whilst penning them, they were too close.
"You wrote this for me?" he croaked after he'd managed to clear his throat.
"Is it okay? I tried to catch your perspective. I know it's a bit... daring, but I thought it was worth a shot." Patrick had rubbed his eyes before walking over and pulling his friend into a tight hug, gripping the back of his t-shirt with locked fists. "This is your promise?" Pete nodded into Patrick's shoulder, without hesitation. He knew he couldn't ever put the people he loved through that and, to be honest, he didn't want to go through that himself anymore, either. The past is another country. They do things differently there. "Pete, if you ever try to take yourself away from me again, especially after this," he'd indicated the piece of paper lying on the coffee table in front of them, Patrick still liked getting lyrics printed out so that he could scribble around in them and make notes, "I will personally come round and kill you." That had made Pete giggle. "What about the rest?" Patrick pulled away and picked up the scribblings to study them more closely. "'I've got troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match.' Well, you got that bit right." He'd meant it jokingly, but his friend looked at him sternly. "Pat,"
"Please don't call me that."
"Patrick, you are the most wonderful, talented, special person I have ever met, okay? Ever. You are the best friend, and the kindest man, and the most wonderful musician. I don't know anybody who could compare to you, man. Not a single person." He'd taken his face into his hands and lifted it so he was looking directly at him. "Please, Patrick. I promise you to never, ever try to take my life again, I will never leave you again, as long as you promise me to try and see you're worth it." Pete cracked a smile "Because you're worth it" his voice had mimicked that of the L'Oreal woman. That, at least, had made Patrick smile. "I'll try, Pete. I'll try."
"Good." To this day, Pete wasn't quite sure why he'd then kissed his forehead, maybe because in that moment, at that moment in time, right then and there, they really were all they'd had. That's the thing with bands, outsiders will never understand what it's like, not really. But at least you're not alone.
Pete set his bass down on its stand as the arena exploded with ear-shattering applause. The sun had set during the last two songs, just as planned. Patrick was grinning out across the crowd, confidently, happily. Proudly. Pride was something he hadn't had the last time round. As he sat down at the piano, the place fell silent.
"Ehm, this is, I guess, a, uhm, a, quite a personal song. For us, like... like, Pete wrote this, back in the day, I don't know... I just feel like it's, like it's... it's very telling, very accurate. It's about us. And about, like, the, the, like the things that bothered us then and the things we've worked on, and it's good to be able to hear it now and know that... we've made it out of that. And we're here now."
This bit was Pete's favourite. You could tell who'd been here longer, you could tell the casual fans from the avid ones. You could tell who enjoyed the words and who understood them. Who knew them. Who felt them.
I've got troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match.
Pete looked at the people staring up at them, the first ones already had tears in their eyes. They knew. They understood. He remembered how tiny Patrick had seemed when they'd first met. Those shorts. That top. Those sideburns. With that hat! He'd been intrigued back then. "Hello, my name is Patrick." Pete had nearly burst out laughing at this little kid who couldn't bring himself to make eye-contact, as though he'd expected some rock god and got, well, Pete Wentz. It hadn't taken him long to suss that he had zero confidence, and yet he was one of the most talented people Pete knew, and Pete knew a lot of people, even back then. He'd barely managed to sing a not for nervousness at first, and even when he could confidently sing, he'd still mutter. Not that Pete minded, but he knew people made fun of it, he was just worried he'd find out and take it personally. People make these jokes, and even though they're harmless, some people are fragile. Patrick was fragile. And it just got worse, it hit rock bottom when people wouldn't let him do what he loved. Pete knew the feeling of unwantedness and emptiness. He knew it too well. It had taken him too far once. Way too far. And seeing Patrick slip away was terrifying, even though he knew he wasn't like him. He wasn't selfish enough for that.
What a catch, what a catch.
Indeed. What a catch. His small, broken best friend. His support. His tether. "Look at him now," Pete thought, "Look at us now."
All I can think of is the way I'm the one who charmed the one
Who gave up on you.
Pete grinned broadly when Patrick glanced at him and their eyes met for a brief moment, immediately causing both their faces to crack open. Patrick knew, too. He knew what he was thinking. They'd made it. Both of them. All four of them.
You'll never catch us,
So just let me be,
Said I'll be fine 'till the hospital
Or American embassy.
Miss Flack said I still want you back,yeah,
Miss Flack said I still want you back.
Even though he didn't need Patrick to hold on anymore, knowing that he had a friend that would always want him there made living a lot easier. A best friend is the best inspiration
Pete blindly started picking the strings of his bass he'd picked up again. The crowd had turned into an infinite sea of lights, stretching back and upwards towards the clear, black sky, that was beginning to reveal the first stars of the night. Everybody had picked up on it now. Even the ones that didn't understand the song now felt it. Because of Patrick. Because of Joe. Because of Andy. And because of him. And maybe, just for a moment, they could bring relief to a pained heart by showing it look, we were damaged. We were broken, We were lost. We were hurting. We made it. You can make it.
"Stay alive!"
Patrick smiled approvingly at the words Pete had spontaneously muttered into the mic standing in front of him. That was, after all, what this was about. Staying alive to cherish the small moments. The hugs, the laughs, the smells. Patrick. He was painfully aware of the fact that they were staring at each other for the entire second half of the song, but did it really matter?
He didn't really notice when it ended. He just felt Patrick's arms around him, firmly, just like back then, in the studio. But this time, they weren't desperate. This time, they didn't have to make promises. This time, the tears weren't sad, this time they were sincerity. Patrick sniffed against his shoulder.
"Thanks buddy." He whispered in Pete's ear.
And then, indicating the crowd, still holding up their phone displays to light up the arena, "We've made it." Pete knew that he didn't mean the people standing in the pit or sitting in the seats. He knew he meant the four people standing on stage, the four people that had managed, against all odds, to be happy.