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The mood in the car on the drive back from the doctor’s office is somber . Joe’s crestfallen demeanor is contagious, and Patrick is, like, extra vulnerable to the feeling right now anyway, behind the wheel heading into the thickening traffic congestion on the 101.
The sun through the windshield is merciless, shining onto Patrick’s cheeks that already have anxious heat creeping into them, making apprehensive sweat gather on his face and drip down his neck. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, trying to wipe away the dampness on his face with the sleeve of his t-shirt, and right then, the Audi in front of him comes to a jarring halt. It takes him a moment to notice, but then he stomps on the brakes, just narrowly avoiding adding a fender bender to the shitty day.
Patrick’s heart stops before picking up a furious pace, and he grips his chest, air rushing to his lungs again after a moment of held breath. He shudders, blinking rapidly as everything goes back to normal, glancing over at Joe.
Joe is completely unfazed, maybe even unaware of the closeness of that call, his gaze still fixed on his hands resting in his lap. He cradles his right hand in his left, flexing the fingers on his right hand before closing them into a tight fist, jaw clenching, maybe in pain, before he loosens his grip again. Each move seems deliberate, like he’s quietly trying to test himself and see precisely where the inflamed tendon flares up, completely enveloped in just this motion.
Patrick shakes his head in awe that Joe can ruminate so completely and thoroughly that he seemingly has tuned out the rest of the world, including how Patrick just nearly wrecked the car. Now that he’s mostly recovered from the shock of the near-accident, there’s a sympathetic ache in Patrick’s chest, sharp and jabbing near his lungs. He instinctively reaches out to Joe, touching his arm gently, which is enough to pull Joe from his mind, lifting his gaze towards Patrick slowly, keeping his chin down-turned with his eyes wide and glassy blue and duller than usual.
“You know, you don’t have to keep doing that if it hurts,” Patrick tells him gently. “Probably a good idea to stop so you don’t make it worse before surgery.”
Joe says nothing, but pulls his hands apart.
Patrick squeezes Joe’s arm as a way to thank him for stopping, brushing his hand down Joe’s arm until it lands on Joe’s thigh, palm facing up to invite Joe to hold it. It feels more natural to him to physically show he’s there for Joe like that than to try to string together something to say that could just make him feel worse unintentionally, because Patrick has never been the best with his words or anything like that. Joe doesn’t really have a problem expressing his love through verbal means, but Patrick is more of a show-don’t-tell guy ( if he can’t show it using music, especially), so he usually will express his adoration like this.
Joe accepts Patrick’s hand, clasping it tight with his left hand, his good hand, and Patrick threads their fingers together, looking at the road again, waiting for the traffic to resume. Joe gives a gentle squeeze to the beat of the song playing from the car radio, lightly playful, even though his face is still serious.
It was only a matter of time until Joe got news like this—he’s been having issues with his right hand for a long time, worsening over the last few months. Even when he would do the proper stretches, he’d still lament the next day that his hand was kind of sore, and a few days ago, not even while playing music , he’d painfully strained his hand scrubbing a plate clean. This clarified that it was time to treat it seriously, and after a trip to the hand specialist (a type of doctor Patrick didn’t even think really existed ) and some X-rays, Joe finally has an explanation for the issue. The explanation, however, includes emergency surgery less than 48 hours from the diagnostic appointment, and this emergency surgery brings with it a six-month recovery time. It’s a diagnosis that would probably fucking suck as a musician any time of the year, but even more so now that Joe has surgery the very same day that Fall Out Boy has a show booked.
Not only is it unfortunate how last-minute it is, but there’s a part of Patrick that still feels like Joe stepping away from Fall Out Boy last, for mental health reasons, was so recent that it’s like they’ve only just gotten Joe back again. Logically, Patrick knows this isn’t true; he knows it’s coming up to two and a half years, actually, but it still feels fresh enough, no less. And it’s got Patrick pitying Joe’s bad luck all the same.
Patrick keeps their fingers threaded together even when traffic picks up to an actual speed again, against his usual preferences for the safety of driving with both hands. He knows that if Joe were in better spirits, he’d probably tease Patrick for the lack of the optimal 10-and-2 placement on the wheel, something like: “What? Patrick Stump driving with only one hand? They’ve suspended people’s driver's licenses on less , dude.” Maybe, at least even in his reserved, melancholic state, Joe can recognize it for the gesture it’s meant to be. Patrick hopes so.
When they get home, Patrick makes phone calls, unable to sit still, pacing around a little and idly running his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes, because it keeps wanting to flop into his face at this length without a hat. Joe sprawls out just behind him in the office on the chaise lounge in the corner. He doesn’t think much of it, absorbed in the task he’s set for himself, and then he’s sucked out of that focus when he hears a quiet strumming sound from behind him.
It’s Joe, of course, and Patrick hadn’t even noticed him take one of his guitars off the wall, lounging with it resting across his torso, playing a gentle melody, but there’s an eerie-ness to the sound. Patrick isn’t sure if it’s purposeful; if the slight dissonance is supposed to emulate the dreadful feeling inside of Joe as his surgery looms, but either way, it feels apt. And Patrick lets him, though there’s a part of him that thinks that he should once again tell Joe not to, for the same reason as the hand flexing from earlier: to not further any damage and lead to potential complications for his surgery, but something about that feels wrong. Who even knows the next time he’ll be able to do that after tomorrow? Patrick just wishes it weren’t contributing to the unsettled feeling within him, but who is he to tell Joe not to play to his feelings right now?
The music Joe’s playing eventually tapers off and then stops, and Patrick turns over his shoulder to look at Joe. He’s still, with his eyes closed—resting his eyes, or something, probably a very light sleep, if at all, which is kind of sweet and sad at the same time. It has been an emotionally exhausting day, and Patrick is really not the early-to-bed type at all, but it makes him kind of want to cuddle up with Joe in bed and just conk out, maybe sleep long enough until it becomes clear this is just a bad dream, that Joe will be flying out with him tomorrow after all.
Patrick pulls out his phone and snaps a picture, and he has the preemptively cheesy thought that it’ll be something he’ll appreciate looking at tomorrow while they’re apart. He slips his phone back into his pocket and stands up, because it’s probably a good idea to put the guitar away for Joe if he’s resting, a small way to take care of him because he won’t be around to do so when Joe is fresh out of surgery.
He removes the guitar from Joe’s grip, and Joe’s eyes open in shock, hands whirring around him in a panic to prevent his guitar from falling. Not realizing that it’s safe in Patrick’s hands, and he touches Joe’s arm calmly, murmuring, “I got it, Joe. I was gonna go hang this back up for you—unless you’re hoping to play some more.”
Joe blinks rapidly, putting his hands up to let Patrick take it, as he processes. “Thanks,” he says.
Patrick turns to the wall, where they have about a dozen guitars mounted, looking down at the one in his hands. He's never really looked at this one this up close; usually, it’s from further away (i.e., not in his own hands but Joe’s ) and there’s usually more distracting things framing it (i.e., Joe’s arms and hands and chest) preventing him from ever really taking in the detail. It’s a beautiful guitar, he knew as much, but the carvings are much more delicate and intricate than he’d been able to appreciate in the past. The floral, winding lines continue onto the guitar's tailpiece, where the strings anchor, and he notices something written there. A name, actually—which makes sense if Patrick thought about it, because he knows Joe plays the signature model of a musician whom Patrick isn’t the most familiar with beyond his name.
Patrick thinks about that for a moment, about how Joe is displaying someone else on his guitar—surely a very talented and good musician, Patrick thinks. But not Joe . That feels like a realization that almost feels like… something , as if the gears in his brain can make it about three-quarters of a turn before it quits and stalls as he hangs the guitar up properly.
—
It's about a day later, in the hotel in Calgary, feeling a little strange and low-spirited, missing Joe, sitting on the bed by himself, that the gears make the whole turn.
Himself, Pete, and Andy had gone pretty much straight from the airport to rehearsal, especially to get the fill-in guitarist as much practice with the set as possible. Patrick kind of hates that sort of schedule, which is draining, and leaves little time to rest. But the nice part is that it makes his collapse onto the hotel bed at the end of the night feel even more earned, and he lets out a sigh of relief. The only thing missing is Joe.
As he settles in, he looks for a few moments at his lockscreen—he'd just changed it on the way here to the one he'd snapped yesterday of Joe and the guitar. It feels a little odd to be apart like this, because Fall Out Boy events usually almost guarantee time together, and a little burst of fondness swells in his chest looking at the lockscreen picture.
Patrick stares at the lockscreen for just long enough for him to feel a little crazy, and he instead calls Joe to wish him a good night. Joe answers the FaceTime with tired eyes and a somber expression.
“Hey, babe,” Patrick greets, happy to see him regardless. “How are you?”
“Hey, I’m okay,” Joe says. “Just chilling, not at practice for the band that I might as well, like, not be a part of anymore, ‘cause of my shitty…everything.” His tone is a little tight because he really struggles with insecurity and imposter syndrome and feeling shitty when he’s not as present as he feels like he should be. And, well, obviously, Joe should be here, should be playing the show with them tomorrow night, but Joe feels guilty and to blame for that, rather than seeing it for the cruelness-of-fate issue that it is.
“Joe,” Patrick says, voice a little sharper than he really means it, “you know if you weren't a part of Fall Out Boy anymore, there simply would no longer be Fall Out Boy. So, just, y'know, don't even say things like that.”
Joe looks down, away from the camera, unable to accept Patrick’s words for what they are because of his insecurities. His lips curve into a sad half-smile, looking like he’s trying to think up a retort, but unable to say it.
“Besides, practice kind of was, you know, not good today, actually, just a bit, you know, frustrating to have a new guy learn the songs, so you didn’t miss much,” Patrick says. He aims for lightheartedness, but he doesn’t know if Joe really can feel the lightness right now. “Did you get up to anything fun at least?”
“Well, Gary and I had a little horror movie marathon,” Joe explains, “but he chickened out before the third movie and went to bed. Reminds me of someone else…except said someone else wouldn’t, like, go right to sleep, but would leave to fuck around with some kinda music something, I think…” He flashes Patrick a teasing smile, big and more real now, and Patrick will take the ribbing because it’s got Joe looking a little livelier.
“No idea who you could be talking about,” Patrick jeers.
They chat a little while longer, until Joe eventually yawns, loud and sudden. It is getting late after all.
“Okay, Sleepy Dwarf,” Patrick says.
“Oh yeah, I’m the dwarf, Mr. Needs-Step-Stools-to-Reach-the-Cupboards .
Patrick gasps in put-on outrage. “ Fine , okay, Sleeping Beauty then. Better?”
“Much.”
Patrick rolls his eyes lightheartedly and laughs. “ Anyway , I’ll let you go so you can sleep before the procedure tomorrow, but —you should give me a call tomorrow as soon as you’re coherent enough to do so, okay? Even if it’s during sound check, I’ll keep my ringer on so I can answer."
Joe nods, eyes flashing a little uneasy, as if he’d forgotten about it being tomorrow already. “Sure, ‘Rick.”
“Good,” Patrick says. “Well, goodnight, love you.”
“Goodnight. Love you too.” Joe waves goodbye sillily, closing his hand like a child just learning how to wave, but it’s cute and sweet, and then Joe hangs up.
Patrick sets his phone aside and grabs his laptop from the bedside table. There are a few work emails to reply to—mostly non-Fall Out Boy stuff—because he just needs to do something to take his mind off it all. Like clockwork, almost as if Pete can sense that Patrick has just gotten off the phone, a text comes in from him, prompting Patrick to pick up his phone again quickly. Pete’s text says that he and Elliott are downstairs in the restaurant having an 11pm dinner, and that he should join them.
The text notification is just rightly positioned on his screen to have Joe’s guitar in the periphery when locked, which sticks out to him more now, especially because next to his email inbox, he’d just seen an ad for an Etsy listing promoting a custom engraved guitar capo with a shiny silver finish, and the ad looks a lot like the tailpiece on Joe’s guitar. And then it hits him—an idea for a meaningful get-well gift for Joe: a custom name plate to replace his current tailpiece, to ease some of Joe’s insecurities and show him that he means so much to Fall Out Boy, and etching it in metal will show the real, tangible way that his role is immutable.
He first looks at the Zemaitis website, wondering if they might sell that sort of thing as is, but the only replacement parts they seem to offer are guitar straps and picks. Not exactly what he’s looking for. He’s not even sure where to find something like this, so instead, maybe he thinks…getting in touch with someone from the brand who can make sure to get something that is guaranteed to fit and be compatible with Joe’s guitar is the best bet. He can’t remember the name of the gentleman Joe’s contact is from Zemaitis. Still, he scans his personal email inbox because he’s sure he was CC’d on something with their accountant regarding a write-off (filing taxes together, and all that), and eventually he finds it—John from Zemaitis.
He sends an email to John, explaining the situation and stating that he wants a touching gift for Joe, along with precisely what he’s looking for. He also notes that it is to be kept a surprise from Joe, because he'd hate to have John accidentally ruin the gift by telling Joe, thinking he's in on it.
Patrick sets aside his laptop once it's sent, remembering that he had gotten too distracted to reply to Pete’s text. He politely declines the late-night dinner offer because he’s not really hungry, anyway.
It's not until Patrick's actually about to sleep for the night, one final scroll on his phone, that he gets a reply from John at Zemaitis.
Hi Patrick,
We'd love to do that for Joe. Anything you'd like to see on the tailpiece in particular?
Patrick smiles and makes sure to reply before he conks out for the night.
—
They're in the middle of soundcheck when Patrick's phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He stops, leaning back to slide his phone out of his pocket, a bit tricky while sitting at the piano like this, and then answers it as soon as the phone is in his hand, swinging his leg around the piano bench so the microphone won’t pick up the call.
He's so relieved to see Joe on the screen, maybe more relieved than ever —not like he thought something terrible would happen (he knows nothing terrible happened, because he's already received a few text updates from Gordon, but—still), but just happy to see his face. Joe looks a little tired, but he looks good, and he’s smiling softly—maybe still hazy from the anesthetic, because he’s mumbling a little to himself.
“How are ya feelin’, babe?” Patrick asks
“Good,” Joe says, “I’ll probably feel, like, sore tomorrow, and it’s weird holding my phone with my left hand, but yeah. And Gordon is here.” He turns the phone camera to show Gordon sitting a few feet away from him on the couch, and Gordon throws a peace sign before Joe turns it back to his own face.
Patrick chuckles. “Yes, I sure would hope he was there, because he’s supposed to be making sure you’re all good in my absence. Remember?”
Joe gives Gordon an offended look off-screen, a disgruntled little crease in between his eyebrows, like he's upset that Gordon's not there just to hang out. He forgets about that quickly, though, relaxing his face and turning his attention back to Patrick. Joe’s mouth opens in a surprised little ‘o’ shape, cheeks a little rosy suddenly.
“Wow, your beard looks really nice,” Joe says, “did you grow it since you were last home?”
Patrick hasn’t even trimmed it since he last saw Joe, but he can’t really blame him because he knows it’s not a genuine case of misremembering, more so the anesthesia making him loopy. “No… I’ve had it for, like…quite a while.”
“Well, it looks…” Joe trails off, his tongue quickly jutting out to wet his lips, and takes a deep breath. “Really good.”
Pete leans against the edge of the piano, closer than Patrick was expecting, because he suddenly hears Pete’s voice just off to the left and a little behind him. “ Hey , are you guys interrupting soundcheck with a saucy phone call?”
“Is that Pete?” Joe asks.
“Yeah,” Patrick says, and then Pete walks behind Patrick, showing up in the FaceTime video to wave.
“Hey, Joe, glad you’re not indecent, was scared for a moment there,” Pete says.
Patrick, amused, shakes his head. His amusement is quickly cut short, though, when a tech—a new tech—gives Patrick the wrap-it-up gesture . Patrick isn’t really about to make a big deal out of it right now, but it ticks him off all the same, especially, like, it’s Joe? The fourth member of this band? It isn’t just Patrick being annoying by talking to his spouse, or any other less significant explanation. It’s also to check in on a member of the band.
Pete waves again before walking back to his place on stage. “Bye, feel better soon, dude.”
Andy doesn’t get up from his kit and has said nothing else on the call, but he yells, “Well wishes, Joe.”
Patrick drops his voice to give a sincere goodbye. “Thanks for calling, Joe. Wish you were, like, here with us, but I’m glad to see you.”
“I wish I was there too. Good luck with the show tonight, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you!”
“Thanks. You too.”
The show ultimately feels a little off, but it manages to go okay, and they make the most of it.
The next day, before Patrick catches his flight, he and Pete grab lunch at a local sandwich place. The food is underwhelming, but the company is nice.
Before they get up to pay their bill, Pete says, “I’ve got something for you to bring to Joe.”
He rummages through his duffel bag, retrieving a blue paper envelope with Joe written on it in Pete’s writing.
“Signed by a lot of the crew. Not you, I guess, but I figured you would probably have your own cheesy get-well card just for him.”
Patrick doesn’t, actually, but he doesn’t tell Pete that, instead just noting to himself to make a stop on the way home.
“What a sweet thing to coordinate all the crew signing it.”
Pete nods. “I have my moments.”
Patrick had driven himself to the airport since Joe wouldn’t be able to drive him back, and he’s grateful to be able to make a stop for a card and some flowers as his interim get-well-soon gift, until the nameplate shows up in the mail.
Joe’s face brightens into a smile when presented with the two cards and the flowers, seemingly very touched by all of it, and Patrick thinks he can’t wait to see the reaction when the more real gift comes in.
—
The custom nameplate takes longer to arrive than expected, not until after another show without Joe. He ends up being a little more accustomed to Joe's absence the second time around, less frazzled and worried about him since he's just in recovery, now from here on out.
Back home again, the day after flying back from Minnesota, he checks the mail. Among the letters from various utility companies, there’s a small, rectangular box, thin and made of cardboard. Return address ‘ Zemaitis Warehouse ’.
Patrick carefully opens the box to have a look. He smiles when he sees it because it’s simple, but perfect; Joe’s name and Fall Out Boy etched into the metal, with flowers on either side to tie it into the whole look of Joe’s guitar. It glints in the sunlight, reflecting silvery beams of light back onto their porch, and Patrick puts it away so as not to get it too fingerprinted before he can show it to Joe. Patrick hopes that Joe will understand the message it’s aimed to send: a reminder that he will always be the lead guitarist for Fall Out Boy, even if he can’t be physically present with them at the shows right now.
Patrick considers screwing the tailpiece onto Joe’s guitar and leaving it as a surprise for him to discover later, but not only is that something that might go missed, Joe is currently sitting in his office, right in sight of the guitar, so he'd need to do it smartly to keep it a surprise. A diversion is possible, but Patrick’s kind of a horrendous liar, so he decides to be straight up with it, joining Joe where he’s sitting, which has Joe attentively looking up at Patrick with his wide, puppy-dog eyes.
“Hey, I’ve got something for you,” Patrick says, sliding the small box into Joe’s palm. Patrick prefaces, “It's not, like, much, but just kind of a get-well-soon gift from me, you know?”
Joe looks at Patrick unwaveringly for a moment, a skeptical sort of pinch between his eyebrows, before he looks down at the box in his left hand. He holds out his right hand kind of uselessly, now out of its bandaging, but still scarred and healing, and Patrick quickly realizes that he should open it for Joe. So he does, leaving the top of the box open but with the name plate inside for him to reach in with his left hand. Joe fishes it out with his good hand and looks down at it in his palm, trying to process what it is, before flipping it over to the right side up.
Joe looks confused at first, like he's trying to ascertain what this piece of metal is, but after a moment, his expression softens. “Is this…is it for my guitar?”
Patrick nods. “Yeah, just something to remind you that, y'know, you're not just that guy sitting on a couch in his PJs with a healing hand, but you're, well—” Patrick gestures at the name plate, “—Joe Trohman, from Fall Out Boy.”
Joe’s lip warbles, and his eyes glaze over a bit, and he laughs a sincere, misty-eyed, very Joe laugh. “Wow…” Joe says, his voice wavering with emotion. “Thanks, hon', that's… really sweet.” He loops one arm around Patrick to crush their sides together, and kisses him softly and chastely. Patrick flashes his high-beam smile once they break apart.
“Oh, and,” Patrick adds, standing up, “I've got two working hands that can put it right onto your guitar for you.” Patrick smiles innocently. He sees Joe’s eyebrows wiggle, like he's got another suggestion involving two working hands , but he just shakes his head like he's holding back to keep the moment sweet and sincere.
Patrick leaves the room to retrieve a screwdriver, grabbing Joe’s guitar from the wall and placing it on the table for a flat surface. He switches out the old tailpiece for his new custom name plate, tightening the screws back into place. Patrick looks at it for a moment, and although he may be biased, he thinks it looks terrific. Just what he'd been hoping for, and now, Joe can play it extra proudly when he is able to again.
Joe seems to agree, too, because when Patrick returns after putting the screwdriver away again (knowing that Joe would probably get up to put it away if he didn't, which seems just wrong for a gift for him like this), he catches Joe taking a picture of it. Joe looks almost embarrassed when Patrick returns, lowering his phone, but Patrick just waves off the sheepish look. “I’m glad you like it.”
“It's wonderful, dude, seriously; unbelievably sweet and kind,” Joe says sincerely. And then his lip quirks, leaning closer to Patrick, his breath ghosting over his face. “Y’know, I could think of a thing or two to show my appreciation. Hand out of commission, but last I checked, everything else still works.” He winks all exaggerated, but there's enough of a steadiness in his gaze that Patrick knows it's not all just jokes; a sincerity to the offer.
Patrick splutters a little but leans forward and kisses Joe as his answer.