Silver mist still blanketed the forest when the Way brothers arrived the morning after the funeral. A fence had been erected at the barrier between wilderness and civilization, but it was flimsy, and Mikey and Gerard jumped it with no issues. Not even with the instruments they were carrying, and the Way brothers were carrying lots of strange instruments. Magic orbs, flasks and vials, tools that looked more like sci-fi tech than anything to do with magic. But Gerard pulled out one of the simplest ones. It looked quite like a compass, and it pointed deeper into the trees.
"Yup, definitely magic," Gerard murmured to his brother. "And it happened deeper inside."
The boys continued without a word, walking through the mist, Gerard's eyes on the compass device, Mikey's eyes on his brother. Though eventually his eyes drifted. To the trees, thick and old that seemed to reach for them through the mist, to the deer and the birds that had risen even earlier than them. They were not acting strangely, simply going about their mornings, hunting for food and tending to their friends as animals did. So, why did he feel this growing sense of unease in his heart?
"Aha!" Gerard said. It was hardly a shout but in the quiet of the forest it sounded like a firecracker. He had shouted because he'd discovered what he'd been looking for. A clearing in the forest, wide and open, where a large pond could just be made out in the morning fog. A towering wisp of smoke still rose above the smattering of pine trees, a tell-tale sign to the Ways of magical occurrences. "This is where it happened," Gerard said. "Ground zero."
"It doesn't look like there are any magical instruments around," Mikey said. "At least nothing large or serious enough to cause that insane tower."
"No, but sometimes looks can be deceiving," Gerard said. "To get a full picture we'll have to investigate even further."
From where they stood on elevated ground it was a long walk to the clearing, down steep slopes where the boys constantly tripped and threatened to fall. As they got closer, the electricity crackled in their veins. Strong magic had been used here, they realized, which was consistent with the spire of fire they'd seen in the sky. But it was subtler than they'd expected. So, Gerard took out another instrument, this one looking quite like a thermometer. He stuck it in the ground unceremoniously.
The red liquid in the tube began to rise, reaching almost to the tippy top of the instrument. But not because the environment around them was particularly hot. This device tracked magic levels, and according to it they were exceptionally high. Gerard said as much, even though it was plain for Mikey to see.
"But... why?" Mikey asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. In their history of being witches the Way brothers had learned that magic needed conduits. Wands, staffs and orbs all counted as such. But there was no such evidence of any of those in the wreckage of the fight. Silence the Noise's tools had been destroyed, Patrick's voice was invisible, the sound waves having faded into nothingness hours ago. For a moment it seemed like their grand battle would be untraceable.
And then the little fox appeared.
Really, he should have been asleep by now. The sun was up, it was firmly daytime, and the foxes of this forest were nocturnal creatures. But even animals sometimes thought about things, stayed up turning things over in their minds, and after witnessing Patrick's transformation he'd had a lot to think about and turn over. So, when he'd heard the Way brothers investigating, he'd thought they'd be a welcome distraction from his bungled attempts to go to sleep. He trotted closer to Gerard and Mikey curious, and the boys smiled at him.
"Well, hello there," Mikey said, softly, crouching down to be at the fox's level. "Well, you're quite friendly, aren't you?"
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about any strange magical occurrences here, would you?" Gerard asked, playfully. In fact, the fox did know about strange magical occurrences. But it didn't know whether to tell the Way brothers about them just yet. So, to make sure he sniffed at their hands and fingers, at Mikey's face, who couldn't help but laugh.
They smelled kind, the fox decided. So, he determined they ought to know what he knew. He moved his paw aside, revealing a fragment of red glass. Mikey and Gerard's eyes widened.
"Well, well, well..." Gerard said, examining the shard of glass between his fingers. Even as an amateur witch he recognized it as unmistakably, part of the magic orb in a dark staff. His first concrete evidence of magic happenings. Aside from the giant spire of fire in the sky, of course. "Who do you think this belonged to?" Gerard asked his brother, but Mikey only shrugged. There were no other clues in the whole clearing, so they'd have to take their investigation to the micro magical level.
"Ugh," Mikey groaned. "We left all our equipment at home."
"I'm sure we can figure something out," Gerard said, brightly. He turned to the fox. "Thank you so much for your help." In response, the fox bowed graciously and trotted away.
"You know, foxes are supposed to be asleep at this time," Mikey said. "I wonder if all this magical business kept him up?"
"Very likely," Gerard conceded with a nod. The Way brothers watched the little fox go. "Animals are much smarter than we give them credit for. And foxes are some of the cleverest animals in the entire kingdom."
Patrick awoke the next morning to the warm sun on his skin and soft fingers stroking his blonde hair. Elisa, he thought before his dream from that night had even fully faded. It had been a mess of darkness and fiery light, rain-soaked funerals and dark pursuers chasing him through nightmarish landscapes. Patrick had slept restlessly, tossing and turning and waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweats. And each time he did so, Elisa didn't even have to say a word. She would just gently take his hand and rub small, gentle circles in it, until he fell asleep once again. Now, having finally woken peacefully, Patrick slowly opened his eyes. Sure enough, his girlfriend was right there, still holding him, her dark eyes staring off into space. When they caught sight of Patrick though, she gave him a faint smile. He smiled back, a small ghostly thing and she kissed his forehead softly. Oh, what a privilege it was to wake up with her. Patrick would've been content to lay like that with her the entire morning, to rest after the nightmare that yesterday had been.
But then came the knock on the door.
Slowly, Elisa rose. "I'll get it," she murmured softly, but Patrick stopped her, pulled her back down gently.
"I'll get it," he muttered.
"Ya sure?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. Sleepily, Patrick nodded.
"It's my house..." he said. "They probably want to talk to me..."
There was little Elisa could say against that argument, so she stayed as Patrick slowly sat up, peeled off the comforter and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bright, golden light shined in thick beams through the windows of the Stump residence, particles of dust dancing through them. Patrick rubbed his eyes against the light and approached the door where the visitors were still knocking on it as if they wished to knock it down. "Alright, alright, I'm coming," he said, sounding perhaps a bit more irritable than he intended. He just really didn't appreciate how these people had interrupted his morning with Elisa.
His irritability lessened significantly though when he saw who was at the door. "Hello, Mr. Wentz," Patrick said when he opened it. He felt a pang in his heart when he looked at him. He'd never realized how much Pete had taken after his father appearance-wise, but now it seemed impossible to ignore. They had the same brown eyes and nose. But while Pete was artistic and sensitive, Peter was no-nonsense and grave. His brown eyes were steely as he gazed at Patrick, as if he didn't know how to regard him.
"Mr. Stump," he finally said, nodding curtly. "Good morning. Sorry to bother you like this but I had some important matters to discuss with you. How are you holding up after... you know...?"
"Alright," Patrick said. He felt a faint warmth rise in his cheeks as he realized Peter was speaking about the funeral. Now Pete's father probably saw him as this weak, fragile thing. He wasn't far wrong, Patrick supposed. Still, it was humiliating after he'd made such a scene. He noticed Mr. Wentz had an envelope tucked under one arm and a cardboard box under the other. "What's all this?"
"What I came here to speak to you about," Mr. Wentz said. "I came to bring you Pete's things. That he bequeathed to you. We flew them in from L.A."
"Oh, is that so?" Patrick asked, taking the box from Mr. Wentz.
"Well, some of it was left to your bandmates," Mr. Wentz said. "But... well, considering what happened we supposed it was best if you took it all..."
"I see..." The box was heavy, of course, it was. Patrick suspected it was filled with instruments, lyric notebooks, some of Pete's favorite records and comic books that he was sure Patrick would've liked. His eyes began to smart at the thought of it. He was holding a part of his best friend right in this little cardboard box. "I'll take good care of it all."
"I figured you would..." Mr. Wentz said with a curt nod. "Oh, and here's a copy of the will. Just so you know we're not keeping anything from you."
"Of course," Patrick said.
"Oh! And Phoenix's stuff is in there as well. You know, the bird? Pete left her to you. Of course, I understand if you wouldn't want to take her on, falcons are rather exotic birds-"
"No, it's fine." Patrick shook his head. "I'm happy to take Phoenix. I... I'll take anything that Pete leaves me."
Mr. Wentz nodded again. He seemed to rely on that move a lot when he was uncomfortable. "Sorry, we can't hand over Phoenix herself, just yet. She vanished the night of the funeral. We've been looking but we're not exactly sure where she went."
"Oh, I'm sure she's around," Patrick said, and despite everything, he couldn't help smiling. "And that she's just fine and being well taken care of."
"Well, I hope so. Just... take care of yourself, alright, kid?"
"I will," Patrick said nodding and he started to turn to go back inside. "You too."
"Actually, wait!" Mr. Wentz said when Patrick had his hand on the doorknob. "Yesterday evening after the funeral, you called my wife and then hung up abruptly. What was that about?"
"Oh, that!" Patrick said, flushing. In all the excitement he'd nearly forgotten about the brief phone call he abandoned. He tried his best to give Mr. Wentz a reassuring smile. "Oh, it was nothing. I figured it out myself."
"Well, if you say so," Pete's father said, though his brow remained furrowed. Patrick watched him head to his car and returned inside as he peeled out.
"Who was that?" Elisa asked, shuffling into the room as she rubbed her eyes. Her gaze went straight to the cardboard box in Patrick's arms.
"It's Pete's things..." he said, softly. "His father delivered them and the will just now."
Elisa nodded with a sympathetic expression, walked over and took his hand in hers. "Well, we don't have to open it now... we can leave it in storage until you're ready..." Patrick smiled faintly. He didn't think he'd be able to so much as look at a word of Pete's lyrics, which he was almost certain had to be in there between the covers of worn notebooks. Patrick sighed heavily.
"Thanks, Elisa," he said. "Maybe I'll try to look at it a little later. But I just can't right now."
Elisa nodded, a sympathetic expression on her face. "Okay, consider it done. I'll put it in the utility room. Is that alright with you?"
Patrick nodded, smiled faintly at her. "Thank you," he said, and he kissed her softly on the cheek. God, he didn't know how he'd do this without her.
"Now, would you let me make breakfast for you, to get your mind off things?" Elisa asked. "I know you haven't been eating much lately."
"That would be nice, actually," Patrick said with a soft smile. "Thank you." Elisa nodded and smiled back. As she started breakfast, Patrick went out the back door where he met Phoenix under one of the trees in the backyard. He'd been too exhausted to call Mrs. Wentz for her various bird things last night, and his house wasn't exactly friendly for a full-grown falcon yet, so she'd spent the night in the forest. Patrick held out his arm and she flapped down and perched on it gently. "Good morning, Phoenix," he said, smiling softly. She chirped back happily.
"Sorry about making you sleep outside," Patrick said, his shoulders falling in shame. Phoenix chirped again, as if to say it was alright, but Patrick shook his head. "I promise, one of my first priorities today is to start setting up your things since Mr. Wentz dropped them off this morning."
Phoenix squawked, as if to say good. Patrick smiled slightly, glad she was excited, then frowned again. "He brought Pete's things too. All the stuff he bequeathed to me. It's a lot... and to be honest, I'm not really looking forward to going through it..."
Squawk! Phoenix called out so suddenly that Patrick started a little. "What?" he asked indignantly. In response, she tugged on his heart with a sense of urgency. Even without words, the message was clear. You have to look through those things now.
"Why is that?" Patrick furrowed his brow. "Is there some sort of magic stuff in there I should know about?" Yes, she thought at him and his shoulders sagged once more. Every time it seemed like he'd get a moment to breathe from his crushing despair, Silence the Noise had to be the wave to bring him back down again.
"And what about Silence the Noise?" Patrick asked. "They're going to come back, aren't they?" Phoenix nodded. "Will I have to transform if I meet them again? And they want to destroy music, right? How am I supposed to stop them from doing that? They need the gemstones, but so do I if I want to fight against them. But didn't the spell also need our souls too? Do I have to look for my friends' souls?"
Phoenix chirped again, as if to say, "You've got it!"
"Well, I have no idea how I'm going to do that," Patrick said, sounding weary. It was all a big mess, to put it mildly. The wills, the gemstones, Silence the Noise, it was all so much to deal with. But a sense of reassurance tugged at his heart, Phoenix telling him that they'd figure it out in due time. Patrick sighed. "I suppose you're right about that Phoenix. But it's still so overwhelming..." He looked back to the house. "Guess I oughta tell Elisa not to put away the box now."
Patrick Stump had managed to stomach a small breakfast of toast and eggs before he took the box of Pete's things to his room, set it on the floor, sat on the floor, and stared at it. He did this for a whole minute, psyching himself up while Phoenix watched, blinking up at him patiently. Finally, he turned to her. "Do I have to...?" he asked, his voice small. The thought of looking at Pete's things so soon after seeing his coffin lowered into the ground was making him nauseous. In response, Phoenix squawked disapprovingly and fluttered up on top of the box. She flooded his mind with a sense of indignation. Patrick groaned and put his head in his hands.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry... but it's hard for me..." For the millionth time since the phone call, he felt tears form in the corners of his eyes. "He was my best friend for ages..."
Phoenix chirped again and Patrick thought he heard annoyance in her voice. To Patrick, Phoenix's message was clear. You're not the only one who's grieving here. He sighed heavily. "I suppose you're right..." he said at last. He removed his hands from his eyes, brought the box closer to him and sliced the seal with a plastic knife.
The contents were just what Patrick had expected. Old movies he and Pete had both loved (both the original trilogy and Star Wars prequels were there in VHS form, for example), vinyl records and CDs, and of course, the notebooks. Each one looked worn and messy, the pages yellowed and frayed from years of use. Patrick pulled one from the box with trembling fingers, a spiral with a bright red cover. He flipped through the pages gingerly, seeing Pete's messy handwriting, the beautiful words he'd probably scribbled in the dead of night or on the bus, whenever inspiration had struck, perhaps with Patrick's voice in mind. He tried to read them but found it hard to do so through the tears. He set the book down and wiped his eyes.
"Sorry, sorry..." he said, and he inhaled shakily. "Just give me a moment..." Phoenix nudged Patrick again. He expected her to tell him to toughen up again in that telepathic bird way of hers, but instead she directed him to the box he hadn't opened yet. When he pulled apart the cardboard flaps, he noticed it was full of her bird things. Meanwhile, she fluttered back to the box with Pete's things and dug through it.
Of course! He could unpack her things while she looked for whatever Pete had left them about Silence the Noise. He was more than happy to do that. Patrick gave her a grateful smile. "Thanks, Phoenix."
Patrick was gazing at the parts of Phoenix's cage with bemusement when she pulled out a giant hardcover from the bottom of the box. It landed on the carpet with a hard thud that made him start. "Oh yeah," he said. "That definitely looks like it's related to some magical destiny." He pulled the book onto his lap and began flipping through the pages. It looked like something out of a fantasy novel, what with all the sketches of magical artifacts, detailing of ancient rituals and notes on the nature of magic. He recognized the four red gemstones, the staffs and wands Silence the Noise had used, read the information that Phoenix had already made clear to him. "It's like some sort of magic textbook..." he murmured. "But what are we looking for...?"
Phoenix flashed a number to him. 45. Patrick assumed that was a page number, so he flipped through the book. Pages weren't marked so he had to count manually. When he reached it, he read the entry. "This is the spell Silence the Noise was trying to use Fall Out Boy's souls for," he observed, turning to Phoenix. She chirped, confirming. Patrick read on. "A highly dangerous ritual to make humans forget music. The souls of four musicians are required, a writer, a beat keeper, a voice and a music maker, each of which have formed deep, intimate bonds with each other. Alright, so that's obviously Pete, Andy, Joe and I. I can see why Silence wanted to kill us, I suppose." Patrick returned to reading. "They must be captured in the red gemstones and presented to death itself so he can bring the force of music into his realm. Death?" Patrick furrowed his brow. "Like the Grim Reaper?"
Phoenix chirped in response. Focus, she seemed to say. Patrick sighed and continued reading. "In order for the souls to be collected properly the sacrifices must be killed with magic. Be aware of potential complications for the spell. If souls are not killed and collected properly, they can be trapped in their music. What?" Patrick set the book down. "What does it mean for a soul to be trapped in its music?" In response, Phoenix lightly pecked the worn red notebook filled with Pete's lyrics. Patrick picked it up and flipped through it once again (even though it hurt), brows furrowed and gears turning. Slowly, it came to him.
"Are you saying... Pete's soul is trapped in his lyrics?" Phoenix chirped brightly, confirming. "Huh... Well, how on Earth do I tease his soul out of that?" and he gestured to the notebook in his hands.
Phoenix responded with a memory. One that had existed in his mind, dormant and hazy, that she was now bringing back up to the surface. Patrick recognized it as being from nearly ten years ago, when he, Pete and Joe had still shared that crappy apartment in Chicago. They were sitting on his bed, he and Pete, as the latter presented him with a tattered notebook.
"Here, try and work with something in here," Pete had said. "And maybe you'll figure out how to write some goddamned lyrics in the process."
"My lyrics really weren't that bad," Patrick mumbled, taking the notebook anyway.
"Not that bad‽" Pete had shouted aghast. "Patrick, you-"
"I just try to focus on how it sounds, is that so wrong, Pete?"
"It does when the words don't make any sense. Your messages don't make any sense."
"Yeah, as if these lyrics are any better," Patrick said, looking them over. Still, he tried to work through them, form with them a melody in his mind. He noodled around with his guitar a bit, hummed a little to himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pete, watching, waiting, silently letting him work. Finally, Patrick sang his words back to him, softly, almost shyly. He looked back up at Pete. "Thoughts?"
Pete was silent for a moment. For a while, he sat there, knees up to his chin, arms wrapped around his body, gazing at Patrick with shining brown eyes. Why, if he didn't know any better, Patrick would've said he was impressed. Finally, he shrugged. "Eh, I guess it works."
"Ugh, you're impossible," Patrick said, lightly shoving him, but there was a smile on his face. And Pete's as well.
After that, the apartment faded. Patrick was back in his room again, in his regular house, gripping the red spiral notebook in his hands so hard his knuckles were turning white. Seeing the memory had been hard, of course, and there was a lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest. But Patrick tried to focus on what he'd just learned, because he knew what he had to do now. These words Pete had written hadn't become a song yet. But Patrick would make them into one. And any music Joe had written as well, no more ignoring his input. Only by assembling the songs they would have made were they to come back together properly would he be able to set their souls free.
Phoenix tugged at Patrick's heart with a sense of reassurance and pride as if saying, good job, for figuring it out.
"So, I'm right, then. Taking the pieces of all my bandmate's writing and making songs from them. That's what I need to do. And then I'll set their souls free so Silence the Noise can't get at them." Suddenly Patrick gasped, clutching the book to his chest. An idea, so wondrous and terrible had occurred to him and already an inkling of hope was rising in his chest, making it ache terribly. "Wait," he said, nearly out of breath. "Does this mean that if I make the songs, they could possibly come-"
No, Phoenix thought at him, interrupting his own. Patrick's heart sank, his shoulders slumped. Yeah, he should have known that such a thing was possible. Not even in the movies did things work out so well. In response, Phoenix chirped softly, indicated the four gemstones that his bandmates had left him the night before, their reminder that they would always be with him. But not in the way he wanted.
Patrick sighed heavily. It occurred to him that it didn't matter what he wanted. The truth was that music was in danger and that his friends' souls were stuck in a strange sort of limbo. Both the world and his bandmates were counting on him, he couldn't afford to let anyone down. "I'll need Joe and Andy's music notes too if I'm to ever make any headway on this..." he muttered, more to himself than Phoenix. He supposed he was adding a visit to each of their houses on his ever-expanding to-do list...
My Chemical Romance had received two hotel rooms. The Way brothers stayed in one and their bandmates in the other. While Frank, Ray and Bob discussed who knew what, Mikey and Gerard continued their magical investigation. No, they didn't have their equipment, but they'd been able to assemble some substitutes through visits to the dollar store, the nearby Walmart and the toiletries offered by the hotel. Mikey set it all up on the hotel desk while Gerard pulled out the magical shard.
"I really hope we don't mess this up," Mikey said as he put the finishing touches on the various contraptions, but Gerard smiled.
"We won't mess it up, it'll be easy, you'll see."
"You say that, but we're still amateurs, remember? I can't help but feel like we're starting to get in way over our depth."
"How can you say that when we don't even know who the shard belongs to?" Gerard asked. "We have to figure it out, at least for research, right? I mean, someone who created a magical phenomenon as big as what happened last night had to have been ridiculously powerful. And you're telling me you're not at least a little curious to see who it was?"
Sourly, Mikey had to concede that he indeed, was curious to see who had cast such a ludicrously powerful spell. The Way brothers didn't have much experience with magic and no experience with magic in a formal setting (but then, very little witches in the twenty-first century had the latter) but even they had to recognize the spire of fire that had raged over Chicago last night for what it was. Something immensely powerful and entirely unrecognizable in its rarity. It would be quite exciting if they, two witches who were still just learning the ropes, discovered something new about magic. Mikey sighed.
"Alright, I suppose I am curious. Let's just get this over with, before the others barge in and ask why we're making meth in the hotel room."
So, the boys got to work. Placing gloves on their hands and goggles over their eyes (they were swimming goggles because proper laboratory ones were actually quite challenging to come by). Gerard was the one to place the shard in the potion they'd brewed in the container of lotion the hotel had provided them. Here was how the experiment was supposed to work. Shards of magical artifacts picked up DNA from their handles just like everything else. Perhaps even more so, as any magical artifact would end up with traces of the user's inner power, especially after an extended period of time. This could all be gleaned by separating and siphoning the magic out of the shard which could be done by placing it in the appropriate potion.
To be honest, Mikey wasn't sure they had the appropriate potion. The brothers had replaced newts' eyes with gelatin (lemon, to be exact) and fairy dust with blue craft glitter. But it seemed to be working because after a few minutes, a dark, fine liquid began to pour from the lotion bottle into the hand soap bottle through a metal straw they had swiped from the hotel bar downstairs. Gerard examined it closely, squinting at with one eye.
"Fine, dark blue, rather dull looking, like a black hole swallowing color..." Gerard turned to his brother. "What does the guide say, Mikey?"
"Checking, checking..." Mikey said, running his hand along the pages of a large, ancient looking textbook (No, they hadn't packed it for the funeral. Instead, the brothers took it in and out of a pocket dimension at will with a simple spell they had perfected). "These traits are consistent with a woman of European descent, approximately fifty years of age with a volatile disposition."
"Huh. Any famous witches we know who fit that description?" Gerard asked.
"I don't know any," Mikey said. "But we can check the database." Indeed, there was a database of witches. The Way brothers weren't on it, they weren't important enough, but many others were. Due to the hidden nature of magic, it was only accessible through the dark web. Mikey pulled up his laptop and accessed it via the onion browser. Finally, he shouted, "I believe I've found a match and pulled up a picture of a blonde woman who fit the description."
"Courtney Love, forty-eight years old, female, an eight out of ten on the experience scale," Gerard said, reading what the database had to say on her. "Often characterized as volatile and for 'interfering with forces beyond the scope of human magical abilities?' What's that supposed to mean?"
"Maybe it's got something to do with what it lists in her current activities section," Mikey said, scrolling down to read it. "Currently suspected to be attempting a dangerous spell to destroy music? Patterns and behaviors connect her to the deaths of multiple musical figures..."
"Like who‽" Gerard asked, leaning forward, eyes wide. "Because that's absolutely crazy." But Mikey only shook his head.
"It doesn't say," he said, sounding glum. "Perhaps because it's all suspected or something?"
"While as long as she doesn't kill any of us. I'm not dying for any sort of spell, especially not one as abhorrent as that..."
"Yeah..." Mikey agreed and then the boys thought for a moment. Mikey's eyes widened. "But wait a minute... three out of four members of Fall Out Boy died recently. And not only that, but they were murdered. And the police couldn't even figure out why..."
"You're right!" Gerard said, determination coloring his expression. "And not only that but wasn't the place we found the shard rather close to Patrick's house if I remember correctly?" The next steps dawned on them immediately. "We have to talk to Patrick!" they both chorused.
"He could be a target!" Mikey said. "And even if he's not, he could be related to this, somehow."
"Wait," Gerard said. "But are we sure he's even going to want to hear about this magical threat to music or potentially even his life? He just went through the worst day of his life yesterday. Not to mention, he might not even believe us."
"And what other choice do we have? Even if he doesn't respond well, we have to try, don't we? He's the last remnant of Fall Out Boy. We have to keep him safe... Pete would've wanted us to keep him safe..." Mikey's voice faltered at that last comment and Gerard frowned deeply, feeling a pang of sympathy in his chest. Sometimes he forgot just how much Fall Out Boys' deaths affected him, especially Pete's whom Mikey had grown so close with during Warped Tour '05 all those years ago. His expression became steely with new resolve once again.
"You're right, Mikey," Gerard said. "We'll definitely warn Patrick. No matter what he thinks."
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and each of the boys jumped. "Quick! Hide the evidence!" Gerard implored his brother. Mikey got busy cleaning up as he went to answer the door. Frank was on the other side, holding up his laptop triumphantly.
"Good news! The airline booked us flights for tomorrow at two in the afternoon. We can finally get back home!"
"Oh, that's great," Gerard said. "But can you call the airport and ask them to drop two of the tickets, please?"
"Huh?" asked Frank. He furrowed his brow, looking between the Way brothers. "You're staying in Chicago. What for?"
"We... wanted to check on Patrick Stump a bit more," Mikey said, and it technically wasn't a lie. "He's the only one left of his band, we thought he might appreciate having some musician friends around."
Frank didn't look entirely convinced though if he had any reservations, he kept them to himself and simply shrugged them off. "Well, if you say so. Just don't stay in the Midwest too long, alright?"
"We won't," said Mikey and the two of them watched him leave. "I really hope we're not getting involved in anything too dangerous. We're just amateurs Gee. If we do, we might not be able to handle ourselves."
"Don't worry about it, Mikey," Gerard said. "All we're doing is asking Patrick some questions and he's the least dangerous guy in the world."