Bandom365; 1/13/08; Ray/Patrick/Music OT3
Bob's the one who notices.
"Toro, man," he grins at the end of an impromptu jam session in Bob's apartment with Ray and Patrick and Bob and Frank. Patrick got a call from Pete and had to excuse himself to the bathroom with an apologetic shrug. "You and Patrick are kind of intense."
Frank throws his head back and laughs. Ray looks up at him, confused. "Intense like... how?" he asks. It isn't the first time he's been called that, but he thought they were having fun! They'd been a little blocked in the studio and Ray had come by to talk and Patrick had butted in with what turned out to be some pretty neat ideas, and by the time Frank showed up saying "You know the entire fucking complex can hear you playing, right?", Ray was in a better mood than he had been in days.
Frank stands up and stretches his arms over his head. "Intense like scary staring at each other's hands and talking about musicians I've never heard of and finishing each other's riffs," he supplies helpfully and Bob grins wider. "You get so pissed when I try to finish your riffs, dude," he continues, pouting.
"I do not!" Ray argues, but Frank rolls his eyes.
"Whatever. All I know is that Patrick Stump can supply your E-minor chords for the rest of the night, since I am going home."
By the time Patrick comes out of the bathroom, Bob has turned in also, citing calls he needs to make back home. Ray is still trying to figure out a section in the bridge of Mama. Patrick sits next to him on the couch and just leans back into the arm as Ray goes between his guitar and his notebook, his pencil sticking haphazardly out of his hair as he plays. "Maybe the rhythm a third down?" Patrick says and when Ray looks over, he's watching Ray's hands, his eyes focused but far away. Ray can hear the change in his head, clear as day, and grins. "Yeah, that could do it," he nods and Patrick leans forward to grab his guitar. Ray can't help but watch Patrick's hands as they think on the strings ('think on the strings' is the only way Ray can put it; it's how he writes too, breaking down the filter between his hands and his brain and just letting things come out in a sort of stream-of-consciousness), can't help but play along.
Ray's not a musical genius, not by a long shot, and he knows Patrick won't let that label stick to him either. He was a weird, lonely kid who loved music, loved playing, loved finding something that he was good at like this, that made him feel special like this. He thinks maybe Patrick was the same way, only he got started a little earlier, had some soul and folk influence where Ray's brothers had weaned him on metal and punk. It's nice to be able to sit and play with someone who doesn't look at you like you're a bit of freak when you can play through a whole song on just one listen, who takes it as normal when you say you can play twelve instruments.
They barely talk for the next half hour until Ray mentions Joe Perry's fingering style and Patrick is off and running, words coming faster than Ray is used to hearing from him. Ray doesn't always agree, and their arguments turn out to be just as fun as their jam sessions. Somehow Ray ends up with his back against the other arm of the couch, guitar (gently) discarded to the floor and his feet tangled up with Patrick's on the sofa. When Bob wanders in blearily, Ray is in the middle of a story he heard about Phil Rudd playing a whole song with his snare on fire. Bob pauses in the doorway and stares at them.
"You're still here?" he asks.
"Why? What time is it?" Ray cranes his neck around to look out the window. The sun's up. "Shit," he says.
"Yeah," Bob says, shaking his head and smiling.
"Hey, man, I'm sorry," Ray says to Patrick with a slight grimace. "You could have just gone to bed, dude!"
Patrick's laugh is a little rough from lack of sleep and Ray hopes like hell he isn't laying any vocal tracks today. "Well, we're kind of, like. Sitting on it," he shrugs and Ray blushes for some reason. He'd forgotten entirely that Patrick was just crashing in Bob's one bedroom place.
"Fuck, I'm sorry," Ray says again, suddenly self-conscious and Patrick reaches out with his foot and pokes him in the thigh.
"Don't be. Most fun I've had in weeks," he grins, and Ray grins back, his cheeks turning pink. Bob clears his throat and shuffles toward the kitchen.
Intense, Ray thinks, and ignores the warm feeling in his belly when he says "Wanna jam later?"