Musicians/Music Groups Fan Fiction >> Fall Out Boy
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Pitter-Patter On My
I curl up in the deepest corner of my armchair, wishing I could endeavour further into the
intersection of the back and the arm rest, until I disappear entirely. The slowly dying fire across
the room emits a pale orange glow, painting white walls amber, and the ceiling a mesmerising yellow.
I inhale deeply, my eyes closed, savouring the calm, cosy atmosphere of a rainy day. I gently place
my headphones into the crevasses of my ears and hear the sharp clicking of the play button, before
lifting the book to my face, searching for an escape from the real world.
Serenity washes over me. The calming abilities of a book work wonders. As I find myself slipping
further and further into the plotline, the sonic onslaught pouring from my headphones ceases once
the song ends. In that mere moment of silence, I hear rapping on the windowpane.
My eyes slowly drift upwards to the window across the room. I first focus on the raindrops racing
across the glass, then feel my heart sink when I see the man standing behind it. Rain steadily
dripping from his foggy glasses, a moisture darkened hat doing little to protect him from the
downpour. His weak smile makes me tremble in pity, and his awkward wave causes a sigh to tumble from
I had known it was him from the moment I heard the noise on my window. I recognised his knock. I had
heard him tapping on that window so many times that I had no doubt it was him. Still, there was a
vague hope in my chest that perhaps he had not come today. Perhaps the sound was a branch hitting
the house, or a few misled birds, blinded by the rain. But my hope had been in vain.
I softly lay my book on the armrest, along with my iPod, the glowing embers in the fireplace
reflecting on the blacked out screen. I push myself out of the seat, my bare feet sinking into the
carpet with each footstep.
“Oh, Patrick,” I sigh as I open the front door to his grateful face and those
glistening, blue-green eyes. Hands stuffed casually in the pockets of his hoodie, canvas shoes
soaked through. Why is it that I am forced to see this image so often? Droplets of water are settled
on his cheeks. I can't separate the rain from the likely tears.
“Can I come in?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. Although, sweet temptation
yearns to me: I could turn him away; beg him to leave me alone. No. How could I send him back? I
nod, my eyes empty of visible emotion. The blanket, still sitting beside the door from a rainy
yesterday, feels damp in my hands even now. He removes his hoodie as he steps eagerly inside and I
throw the grey, woollen layer over his shoulders.
He always rests on the sofa when he arrives. I can only follow, too afraid to tell him that I don't
want him around. I sit next to him politely, avoiding conversation and eye contact. I tense and
hunch my shoulders as he drapes his arm over them: his gesture of thanks for allowing him to enter
“Bathroom,” I mumble, another excuse to get away. This is where I hide; the white
fortress from my stalker. I sit on the edge of the bath, fighting my need to cry, desperately
battling to keep emotions in check. Still, I cannot stop a few tears from escaping. I stay immobile
for an acceptable length of time before checking for any running make-up in the mirror. He can't
know how or why I'm hurting. I could only cause further pain.
I hesitantly make my way back to the living room, praying that he isn't still there. No such luck.
He sits on the edge of the sofa, waiting expectantly for my return.
“I love you,” he blurts out. I had been expecting him to say this for some time now, but
I still felt my heart being swiftly torn in two.
“Go home, Patrick,” I beg, my voice cracking in pity and emptiness. He returns my broken
expression and walks quickly to the door, leaving the blanket behind. Somehow I know that this won't
stop him from returning tomorrow. I run a hand through my hair in frustration. He is never going to
I collapse back into my armchair, the movement causing the book to fall into my lap. I take a last
look through the window to watch him walk away, that same shattered expression on his face. He looks
up to my window for a short moment, meeting my gaze, but quickly returns his tear filled eyes to the
I dismiss the tear under my lower eyelid and return to my book: a doorway to another world, a portal
to the problems of someone else; where I can forget the guilt of being loved and feeling nothing in
I ignore the circular patches of water on the page, refusing to accept that they are coming from my
own eyes. Then I refuse to listen to the new knocking coming from my window. I'll pretend not to
hear him, then maybe he'll leave. He persists. So do I. I then feel the vibration in my pocket, and
give in. I don't need to take my phone out and read the message. I know it's from him. I know what
it says. I look up sadly from my so-called `escape' to see that soaked, jet black hair, and those
big, brown, begging eyes. His signature grin emerges when our eyes meet.
I drag the blanket - still drenched in Patrick's scent - from the sofa and throw it into Pete's arms
as I pull the door open.
“Thanks,” he says as he catches it. He and Patrick have similar tastes in women; more
than they are aware. He sits in the spot where his best friend had been sitting so recently, to his
lack of knowledge.
It breaks my heart, how clueless they both are. I don't love either of them, and never will. I stare
blankly into the embers in the fireplace as Pete converses more with himself than me. I'm not
listening anyway. I know neither of them will ever give up, no matter how many times I turn them
down. Still, I know how they feel. To be in love with someone who doesn't care for you. That's why I
never have the heart to turn them away.
If only Andy felt the same way that they do.
A/N: Inspired by a line in the song `Taylor' by Jack Johnson.
I just needed a break from writing `Memories'. I heard the song and got this picture in my
mind and I just developed that.
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The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.
Please see the Terms of Service for more information.