I chew my lip, waiting for the clock to hit four 'o' clock with bated breath. It's still ten to, but I can dream. I've had a shit day, and I really need to go home right now.

To start with, my boss didn't slouch in until at least ten. Then, she didn't let me go on my lunch break until half two, two hours late, and when I came back after less than half an hour, she yelled at me about how late I was (how the hell did she figure that, she was late herself) and so for the rest of the day continued to make bitchy comments about my clothes, and what a crap employee I am. I wouldn't really care about what some drunk junkie thought about me, except this particular drunk junkie could fire me at any time, and then my financial situation would go poof, along with my dreams.

Sorry. I'm ranting here, but you've got to forgive me for that. I deserve a rant, trust me. I just need to go home and, I dunno, hug Patrick and eat chocolate. Boyfriends and chocolate always cheer me up, no matter what.

I stare at the clock. I swear to god, some evil little devil is sitting behind that wall, slowing the clock down. Every second on that freaking clock seems to take about a century to pass. Damn that little devil. I check my phone, looking for texts from Honey or Patrick or someone so I can do something, but no one's texted me. Honey's at work, and I guess Patrick's phone is off or something.

I give the clock another glance, and, to my utter amazement, it's four 'o' clock! Oh praise the sweet, sweet lord! Well, I'm not religious in the slightest, but you get me. I log off, sign out, and grab my jacket, and then I'm out the door like a bullet from a gun. Literally, I don't think that I've ever moved so fast in my whole life. I turn and start walking down the street, I Don't Care blasting from my headphones. Is it just me who always feels really badass whenever I walk down the street listening to that song? It's a great song, certainly.

I get into my building and wade through the ocean of post we have at the front door. It's all just junk mail and pizza leaflets, so I just leave it and continue up the stairs. the place is so quiet, I can hear my footsteps ring around the empty house. I wonder where Patrick is. I get to his landing and knock on the door. There's no reply, but I didn't really expect one. He never answers his door. So, carefully, I turn the handle. The door's unlocked.

Strangely, Patrick isn't in his front room. He's usually in there whenever I come back, playing music or reading or playing video games or something. That or he's with one of the guys. But no, the flat seems to be totally empty. That's weird. He never leaves the flat.

I open the door to his bedroom, but there's no one in there. I check the bathroom, the kitchen and the cleaning cupboard, but there's nothing. So I turn my sights on the door that I've never opened.

Patrick always keeps this door closed. I've never gone in there, because when I started sleeping at his more, he told me that it was a room I should never go in, only him. I don't know what he uses it for. He says it's a 'work room', but that makes no sense. He doesn't work. He doesn't need a study, or anything like that.

I approach the door, my heart thumping in my chest like a drum. I give it a gentle tap. No reply. I try again, harder, but there's still no one there. And so, ever so carefully, I open the door.

What I see in there is so unexpected and strange and bizarre that I actually rub my eyes, thinking that it's a dream it's not. The room is fairly large, but it crammed full of stuff. A wall with at least six or seven guitars hanging on it, each one a different type or colour. A drum kit in the corner, and a grand piano in the other. There's a keyboard, and then, taking up almost half the room, is a soundproof booth with headsets and buttons and dials and whatnot. Against another wall is a huge bookcase, but it's not lined with books. Instead, it's full of music. CDs, vinyls, everything. In the middle of the room is a big desk, covered in sheets of paper, and siting at it in a big green chair, with his headphones in, totally oblivious to the world, is Patrick.

"Patrick?" I whisper, staring at him. What is this place?

He jumps, startled, and pulls off his headphones. "Lydia! I... Uhh..." The poor guy looks terrified.

"What are you...?" I trail off, because he's gone red.

"Nothing!" He rushes to clear away thew paper, but he doesn't seriously think that he can't tell me what's going on, does he? This place is crazy. It's like a recording studio or something.

"What's going on?" I demand, my hands on my hips.

"I..." He sighs. "I'm in a band." He says this so quietly, I think I'm mistaken at first, but then I realize what he's saying.

"Huh?"

"I sing. In a band," he says, looking at the floor.

"Really?" He nods. "That's... That's awesome! What kind of music do you play?"

He smiles. "Kinda alternative, punk sort of thing. You know. A bit like Panic! At The Disco."

"Really? Let's hear it, then." I sit next him on the edge of the desk.

"No! I can't..."

"Why?"

"I... Alright, then." He breathes in and out, slowly, and then starts beating time, slapping his leg in regular beats. And then he starts to sing.

But before he's sung as much as a note of the first line, I know this song. It's all Fall Out Boy song. The first few words of Where Is Your Boy/ Grand Theft Autumn suddenly ring out, covering the room. But it's not a cover. No. It's unmistakably the lead singer of Fall Out Boy's voice, coming from Patrick's mouth.

Where is your boy tonight?
I hope he is a gentleman.
Maybe he won't find out what I know:
You were the last good thing about this part of town.

Oh my god. This can't be real. This has to be a dream. But it's not. I know it's not. I've found out who all out Boy is. It takes all my self-control not to pass out right there, but instead, I lean forwards, desperate not to miss a word.

  When I wake up,
I'm willing to take my chances on
The hope I forget
That you hate him more than you notice
I wrote this for you (for you, so...)

You need him
I could be him
I could be an accident but I'm still trying.

That's more than I can say for him.

Where is your boy tonight?
I hope he is a gentleman.
Maybe he won't find out what I know:
You were the last good thing about this part of town.

Someday I'll appreciate in value,
Get off my ass and call you...
(but for) The meantime I'll sport my
Brand new fashion of waking up with pants on
At four in the afternoon.

You need him
I could be him
I could be an accident but I'm still trying.
That's more than I can say for him.

Patrick's voice, which is like honey dripping off his tongue, continues. I actually pinch myself, tears running down my face. Oh god. He's perfect.

  1-2-3-4!

Where is your boy tonight?
I hope he is a gentleman.
Maybe he won't find out what I know:

You were the last good thing about this part of town.

(Won't find out) He won't find out
(Won't find out) He won't find out

Where is your boy tonight?
I hope he is a gentleman.
Maybe he won't find out what I know:
You were the last good thing about this part of town.

Where is your boy tonight?
I hope he is a gentleman. (he won't find out)
Maybe he won't find out what I know:
You were the last good thing about this part of town.

When he finishes, he looks up at me expectantly. I don't think he expected me to be crying. His face falls.

"Oh god, am I that bad?" he whispers. This makes me want to cry again, because he's so good and he doesn't even know it, but instead I wipe my eyes and compose myself.

"Oh, Patrick. You were incredible. But it's not that. Why didn't you tell me?"

He frowns. "Huh?"

"You're the lead singer of Fall Out Boy!" I practically yell. It sounds even more insane when you say it out loud, but this is a big deal.

"I... Yeah..."

"I've loved you guys since you first started!" I leap up and hug him, checking that, yes, he's real, and not some magical fairy that I've fallen in love with.

"Wait, really?" he asks. Oh dear lord, save me.

"Yeah!" I run my hand through my hair. "Ok, I need to calm the hell down." He laughs. "I'm serious. I go in a secret room, my boyfriend's in there, songwriting, he sings the whole of Where Is Your Boy/ Grand Theft Autumn to me and... oh sweet Jesus.

"Who's the rest of Fall out Boy?" I ask.

"Uh, Pete, Andy and Joe."

Oh fucking hell, I've rubbed shoulders with kings of punk music.

"This has got to be a dream," I whisper to myself.

"Well, it's not." He smiles at me.

"You're..." I sigh. "You are an incredible person, you know that?"

"That is an overstatement."

"It is not. Kiss me." So we kiss.

"You know, I never thought any of this would ever happen," he whispers, pulling away slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"I never thought I'd have you."

"Well, you do." he nods and I'm just about to kiss him again when there's a bang at the door, and Pete, Andy and Joe walk in. AKA Fall Out Boy.

"What the hell is going on here?" yells Pete, his voice like thunder.

Oh shit.