Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy
I’m running through the crowd, desperate for him to have a chance to see me. I’ve loved Patrick for as long as I can remember, though it’s taken me a decade to get it out.
As I push my way to the stage, no barrier assembled, we make eye contact, and his face visibly changes from carefree and confident to a flash of anxiety. He turns away as quick as our eyes met, turning attention instead to his guitar as he plays the song he wrote about me. While his voice retells the story of our past, I rerun our beginning in my head.
I wasn’t interested, at first; we only shared sophomore English. We were partners and friends. We wrote poetry, and later lyrics, together. We slept over at each others’ homes, had multiple drinking sessions in my brother’s room, engaged in frisky and risqué behaviors. I was best friends with Anna, his long-term girlfriend before me and ultimately before Elisa.
The song is over, and the crowd applauds, myself included. I stay for a few more songs through the end of the show, where we the audience praise his hard work, though no one here knows how hard it was but me. When I walk out of the venue, I follow a few groups around the side of the club to find his tour bus; he’s always been so kind as to spend time with fans. I wait in the back, far enough to give him space but close enough to have him understand that I’m still here.
I remember our brief relationship: how Anna refused to talk to me for months and eventually years, how the sexual tension from our adolescence fueled our passion, how our youth and immaturity could not last the distance and real-world issues of being a couple. There was no infidelity; I simply gave up, which didn’t help soothe him after the mess Anna left. We didn’t speak, except for him yelling at me, for years.
The group in front of me is fading, disappearing into the darkness of the night, but the few streetlamps cast a warm glow on Patrick. There are only a dozen kids remaining to talk to him, and then I do what I came here for.
More recent events flash in my mind: Patrick calling me about a month ago and crying, begging to have me allow him to come over. I let him, and he was at my doorstep within the hour. He had work in town for the weekend, and he said he had something to talk to me about. He came inside and sat on the couch, and all he did was cry, complain about Elisa suffocating him and how much he missed the easier days when we were friends, or at least talked. He stayed the week in my apartment, and in that time we grew from distant exes to close friends like we were in high school. Then we decided to drink to celebrate, and one thing led to another and I woke up in his arms in bed. My natural reaction was to freak out, which I did, causing him to wake up. After getting showered and dressed, we sat down and talked through it. He admitted to never getting over me and how much he regretted the time we spent apart. I told him I wasn’t doing anything until he left Elisa, if he was that unhappy with her, and even then I’d have to think about it. He left as he came: in tears, emotionally raw.
It’s just me and him now; our eyes meet again. He motions inside the bus as he opens the door. I can tell that he’s shaking.
Last week he called me. I ignored it. Shocked when I came back ten minutes later to find a voicemail and a text telling me to listen. It was brief:
Hey, it’s me. I know you’re confused. I’m confused, too. But I left Elisa, and I want to talk things out with you. I’m doing a show close by next week. If you come, we can talk. If not, then I guess that’s message enough.
I step inside the bus, and he gestures to the couch. I sit, waiting for him awkwardly while he changes from his stage suit. He comes out in jeans and a t-shirt and fairly clean, but I can’t help noticing the glistening sweat on his forehead.
“Want anything to drink?” He has a water bottle in his hand.
“Uh, yeah, water’s fine.” Patrick grabs an extra bottle and hands it to me, joining me on the couch. We break open the caps and take a few sips. This is definitely way, way awkward.
“So, you came.” I nod.
“Yep. I, uh, I’m here.” He’s eerily silent, and I pick up on his slight hand tremor; it’s the nerve tremor. I haven’t seen him have it since I sat him down to leave him. “I don’t really know how to say--”
“Don’t you fucking dare do this again!” I watch the bottle fall as he pushes himself up to pace the floor. “I asked you here because I want to be with you!” He’s in tears again as I slowly stand to join him. I place one hand on his shoulder and the other on his upper arm, and he falls into me, shaking. “I loved you, and you fucked me over, and you left, and we didn’t talk, and I was lonely, and now I fucked up, and I trusted you, and…” The rest is incoherent; the sobbing becomes too much. I continue my attempts to calm him. Maybe I’ll get a word in edgewise.
“But Patrick--”
“Damn it, no! You’re just going to hurt me again.” He shakes my hands off violently and goes to the door. “I give up. Just go.” I’m stunned at him; I’d always known I hurt him, but not like this. My eyes fall to the floor as I realize I’ve begun to cry. My vision is blurry, like trying to open your eyes underwater in a pool. I feel the tears slip down my cheeks and stick under my chin. I know if I let out a sound I’ll fall apart, but I can’t bring myself to leave, so I stand here, barely controlling myself and listening to him continue to cry.
“Will you please just go, Allie?” My pent-up sobs cause me to shake. Words won’t help me. Step by step, I move towards the door, still hiding my face. He opens bus door for me once we’re standing next to each other, but I don’t go. I can’t, not after all we’ve been through. I look up into his face, and in his eyes I see a glimmer of surprise at my tears. I move closer.
“I’m not going anywhere.” All at once, he slams the door shut, pulls me close, and crashes our lips together. I don’t remember kissing with him being quite like this, but I definitely like it. He’s certainly learned quite a bit, not that I minded his kissing before.
Patrick’s hands slide down to my waist, grabbing my hips in a way I know his fingers will leave bruises, but I don’t care. I sense his hardening arousal through his jeans against my leg, and I wrap my arms around his neck in such a way that I can tug at the ends of his sweaty hair. Simultaneously, I nibble at his lip; he moans my name, and his hands dig deeper into my hips. I moan back and pull away from the kiss to trail my lips down his jaw to his neck, sucking lightly at the skin to make him inhale sharply.
“That’s it” is all he says before grabbing my arm and leading me into the back room of the bus where a queen-sized bed awaits us. It was dark before, but when Patrick closes the door, the room is pitch black, and the only remnants of light are from the golden streetlamps outside barely peeking through the blinds. His hands are on my hips again, pushing me down on the bed and lifting up my shirt in one swift motion. Before my back even hits the mattress my bra is off and thrown into an unknown corner. I reach up to the hem of his tee and get up on my knees to pull it off as I hear him fumbling with his belt. Once he’s topless, I allow him my help, shooing his hands away as I work the clasp of the belt and yank it from the loops. I unbutton and unzip the jeans, and I show his hands to shimmy them off. The boxers are mine.
I reach inside and wrap my hand around his aching cock, pumping it slowly as I hear him moan in pleasurable agony. The other hand has dropped the boxers to his ankles. I inch forward on my knees and lean over to take him into my mouth, first breathing lightly on his head then licking the underside of his tip. That drives him wild, but not as wild as taking him all the way in so my lips are at his pubic base, using my tongue to swirl around his shaft. I keep going up and down on him until he decides enough is enough and throws me all the way down on the bed. Apparently he’s kicked off his boxers already, because I feel him climb on top of me to drag off my underwear. That’s when he plunges two, then three fingers inside of my wetness, pumping them back and forth and toying at my g-spot. I squirm and moan until his other hand holds my hands down, and he uses his knees to keep my legs down. He’s clearly determined to get me to orgasm. I know I’m close as he dances inside of me, I can feel myself dripping onto his hand, but then he rolls his thumb over my clit, and within half a minute I’m exploding. I can hardly catch my breath.
“Patrick!” I scream, back arched as I come all over his hand with tears of joy and pleasure streaming down my face. I get a second to recover before I feel his rock-hard arousal inside of me and him leaning over me to press our lips together once again. I wrap my legs around his torso and buck my hips at each one of his thrusts. Gradually, their frequency increases, and soon enough he’s pounding in and out of me. I break the kiss to suck and bite at his lower neck, closer to his shoulder where the marks I know I’m leaving won’t be easily seen. He sharply inhales again, moaning loudly.
“Oh god, Allie, I’m so fucking close…” he barely gets out, and all I can do is whimper in response; I’m close again myself. We’re no longer in rhythm, rather he’s thrusting erratically, but he’s getting in deep enough to both hit me deeply and rub against my clit.
“Fuck…” is the only thing I can say that doesn’t catch in my breath. In the dim lighting from outside, I can just make out his o-face as I come again, harder this time. He comes half a second later and slides off of me, collapsing next to me. We’re both panting and sweating.
He lays an arm around me, and I curl up into his side, placing my head on his warm chest. I listen to his heartbeat as it calms itself, his chest rising and falling steadily so he can breathe more easily. We lie in our silence for a solid few minutes until I open my mouth to speak.
“Hey Patrick?” I ask, my voice much more steady.
“Yeah?”
“About what I was trying to tell you earlier…”
“What about it?” I swear I feel his heart skip a beat.
“What I wanted to say,” I take a deep breath. “I wanted to say that…that I love you. And I know it was me who fucked up before, and I’m so incredibly sorry for that, but I want to do this with you.” For a minute, there’s nothing but breathing. “Are you going to say anything?” I feel him smile. “What?”
“I’ve waited so long to hear you say that. I love you, too.” He kisses me tenderly and rolls over.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
“Going to sleep, babe.” I grin at “babe.” “Why?” I pull him so his back is fully on the bed and flip myself on top, straddling his hips.
“Because I’m not finished with you yet.”
[END]
As I push my way to the stage, no barrier assembled, we make eye contact, and his face visibly changes from carefree and confident to a flash of anxiety. He turns away as quick as our eyes met, turning attention instead to his guitar as he plays the song he wrote about me. While his voice retells the story of our past, I rerun our beginning in my head.
I wasn’t interested, at first; we only shared sophomore English. We were partners and friends. We wrote poetry, and later lyrics, together. We slept over at each others’ homes, had multiple drinking sessions in my brother’s room, engaged in frisky and risqué behaviors. I was best friends with Anna, his long-term girlfriend before me and ultimately before Elisa.
The song is over, and the crowd applauds, myself included. I stay for a few more songs through the end of the show, where we the audience praise his hard work, though no one here knows how hard it was but me. When I walk out of the venue, I follow a few groups around the side of the club to find his tour bus; he’s always been so kind as to spend time with fans. I wait in the back, far enough to give him space but close enough to have him understand that I’m still here.
I remember our brief relationship: how Anna refused to talk to me for months and eventually years, how the sexual tension from our adolescence fueled our passion, how our youth and immaturity could not last the distance and real-world issues of being a couple. There was no infidelity; I simply gave up, which didn’t help soothe him after the mess Anna left. We didn’t speak, except for him yelling at me, for years.
The group in front of me is fading, disappearing into the darkness of the night, but the few streetlamps cast a warm glow on Patrick. There are only a dozen kids remaining to talk to him, and then I do what I came here for.
More recent events flash in my mind: Patrick calling me about a month ago and crying, begging to have me allow him to come over. I let him, and he was at my doorstep within the hour. He had work in town for the weekend, and he said he had something to talk to me about. He came inside and sat on the couch, and all he did was cry, complain about Elisa suffocating him and how much he missed the easier days when we were friends, or at least talked. He stayed the week in my apartment, and in that time we grew from distant exes to close friends like we were in high school. Then we decided to drink to celebrate, and one thing led to another and I woke up in his arms in bed. My natural reaction was to freak out, which I did, causing him to wake up. After getting showered and dressed, we sat down and talked through it. He admitted to never getting over me and how much he regretted the time we spent apart. I told him I wasn’t doing anything until he left Elisa, if he was that unhappy with her, and even then I’d have to think about it. He left as he came: in tears, emotionally raw.
It’s just me and him now; our eyes meet again. He motions inside the bus as he opens the door. I can tell that he’s shaking.
Last week he called me. I ignored it. Shocked when I came back ten minutes later to find a voicemail and a text telling me to listen. It was brief:
Hey, it’s me. I know you’re confused. I’m confused, too. But I left Elisa, and I want to talk things out with you. I’m doing a show close by next week. If you come, we can talk. If not, then I guess that’s message enough.
I step inside the bus, and he gestures to the couch. I sit, waiting for him awkwardly while he changes from his stage suit. He comes out in jeans and a t-shirt and fairly clean, but I can’t help noticing the glistening sweat on his forehead.
“Want anything to drink?” He has a water bottle in his hand.
“Uh, yeah, water’s fine.” Patrick grabs an extra bottle and hands it to me, joining me on the couch. We break open the caps and take a few sips. This is definitely way, way awkward.
“So, you came.” I nod.
“Yep. I, uh, I’m here.” He’s eerily silent, and I pick up on his slight hand tremor; it’s the nerve tremor. I haven’t seen him have it since I sat him down to leave him. “I don’t really know how to say--”
“Don’t you fucking dare do this again!” I watch the bottle fall as he pushes himself up to pace the floor. “I asked you here because I want to be with you!” He’s in tears again as I slowly stand to join him. I place one hand on his shoulder and the other on his upper arm, and he falls into me, shaking. “I loved you, and you fucked me over, and you left, and we didn’t talk, and I was lonely, and now I fucked up, and I trusted you, and…” The rest is incoherent; the sobbing becomes too much. I continue my attempts to calm him. Maybe I’ll get a word in edgewise.
“But Patrick--”
“Damn it, no! You’re just going to hurt me again.” He shakes my hands off violently and goes to the door. “I give up. Just go.” I’m stunned at him; I’d always known I hurt him, but not like this. My eyes fall to the floor as I realize I’ve begun to cry. My vision is blurry, like trying to open your eyes underwater in a pool. I feel the tears slip down my cheeks and stick under my chin. I know if I let out a sound I’ll fall apart, but I can’t bring myself to leave, so I stand here, barely controlling myself and listening to him continue to cry.
“Will you please just go, Allie?” My pent-up sobs cause me to shake. Words won’t help me. Step by step, I move towards the door, still hiding my face. He opens bus door for me once we’re standing next to each other, but I don’t go. I can’t, not after all we’ve been through. I look up into his face, and in his eyes I see a glimmer of surprise at my tears. I move closer.
“I’m not going anywhere.” All at once, he slams the door shut, pulls me close, and crashes our lips together. I don’t remember kissing with him being quite like this, but I definitely like it. He’s certainly learned quite a bit, not that I minded his kissing before.
Patrick’s hands slide down to my waist, grabbing my hips in a way I know his fingers will leave bruises, but I don’t care. I sense his hardening arousal through his jeans against my leg, and I wrap my arms around his neck in such a way that I can tug at the ends of his sweaty hair. Simultaneously, I nibble at his lip; he moans my name, and his hands dig deeper into my hips. I moan back and pull away from the kiss to trail my lips down his jaw to his neck, sucking lightly at the skin to make him inhale sharply.
“That’s it” is all he says before grabbing my arm and leading me into the back room of the bus where a queen-sized bed awaits us. It was dark before, but when Patrick closes the door, the room is pitch black, and the only remnants of light are from the golden streetlamps outside barely peeking through the blinds. His hands are on my hips again, pushing me down on the bed and lifting up my shirt in one swift motion. Before my back even hits the mattress my bra is off and thrown into an unknown corner. I reach up to the hem of his tee and get up on my knees to pull it off as I hear him fumbling with his belt. Once he’s topless, I allow him my help, shooing his hands away as I work the clasp of the belt and yank it from the loops. I unbutton and unzip the jeans, and I show his hands to shimmy them off. The boxers are mine.
I reach inside and wrap my hand around his aching cock, pumping it slowly as I hear him moan in pleasurable agony. The other hand has dropped the boxers to his ankles. I inch forward on my knees and lean over to take him into my mouth, first breathing lightly on his head then licking the underside of his tip. That drives him wild, but not as wild as taking him all the way in so my lips are at his pubic base, using my tongue to swirl around his shaft. I keep going up and down on him until he decides enough is enough and throws me all the way down on the bed. Apparently he’s kicked off his boxers already, because I feel him climb on top of me to drag off my underwear. That’s when he plunges two, then three fingers inside of my wetness, pumping them back and forth and toying at my g-spot. I squirm and moan until his other hand holds my hands down, and he uses his knees to keep my legs down. He’s clearly determined to get me to orgasm. I know I’m close as he dances inside of me, I can feel myself dripping onto his hand, but then he rolls his thumb over my clit, and within half a minute I’m exploding. I can hardly catch my breath.
“Patrick!” I scream, back arched as I come all over his hand with tears of joy and pleasure streaming down my face. I get a second to recover before I feel his rock-hard arousal inside of me and him leaning over me to press our lips together once again. I wrap my legs around his torso and buck my hips at each one of his thrusts. Gradually, their frequency increases, and soon enough he’s pounding in and out of me. I break the kiss to suck and bite at his lower neck, closer to his shoulder where the marks I know I’m leaving won’t be easily seen. He sharply inhales again, moaning loudly.
“Oh god, Allie, I’m so fucking close…” he barely gets out, and all I can do is whimper in response; I’m close again myself. We’re no longer in rhythm, rather he’s thrusting erratically, but he’s getting in deep enough to both hit me deeply and rub against my clit.
“Fuck…” is the only thing I can say that doesn’t catch in my breath. In the dim lighting from outside, I can just make out his o-face as I come again, harder this time. He comes half a second later and slides off of me, collapsing next to me. We’re both panting and sweating.
He lays an arm around me, and I curl up into his side, placing my head on his warm chest. I listen to his heartbeat as it calms itself, his chest rising and falling steadily so he can breathe more easily. We lie in our silence for a solid few minutes until I open my mouth to speak.
“Hey Patrick?” I ask, my voice much more steady.
“Yeah?”
“About what I was trying to tell you earlier…”
“What about it?” I swear I feel his heart skip a beat.
“What I wanted to say,” I take a deep breath. “I wanted to say that…that I love you. And I know it was me who fucked up before, and I’m so incredibly sorry for that, but I want to do this with you.” For a minute, there’s nothing but breathing. “Are you going to say anything?” I feel him smile. “What?”
“I’ve waited so long to hear you say that. I love you, too.” He kisses me tenderly and rolls over.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
“Going to sleep, babe.” I grin at “babe.” “Why?” I pull him so his back is fully on the bed and flip myself on top, straddling his hips.
“Because I’m not finished with you yet.”
[END]
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