Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader — Glory Days
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Series Summary: Before war and murder and vengeance, Frank existed as… well, Frank. Young, wary of the world, but determined to make an impact. And then…? Then came you. You changed everything. Ah… to be 18 again.
Chapter Summary: Frank thinks about a future with you. You think about breaking up with him. Billy smooths the situation over with Frank while you call the best source you know for intel: David Lieberman. The weekend goes by in a torturous silence, but when you aren’t at school on Monday? Frank fears the worst. When Frank shows up in your window Monday night, you’ve got no choice but to confront him. Rather… he confronts you.
Warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST, drama, hurt/no comfort, hurt/minimal comfort later, brief self harm mention, Billy Russo’s a rat bastard snake, Micro’s a real one, reader talking to deceased mom, talks of virginity, mentions of past drug/alcohol use, mentions of implied past sexual encounters but not at all described, reader is not described in fic, pic is purely aesthetic, 18+ only MDNI.
w/c: 10k | song rec for 90’s theme: sad eyes by bruce springsteen
Ain’t unusual for it to snow late March in New York.
Frank knows ‘cause it’s right in his fuckin’ face.
Dry flurries sand the windshield of the truck as Frank weaves the early morning traffic. Sparse cars he’s able to dodge. The wipers shudder down and screech back, defrosters on full blast.
“Don’t answer the phone,” Frank grumbles to himself, head on swivel as he peers down every side street and alley from your house.
Knocked on your door. No answer. Went up the fire escape to look in your room. Nothin’. Shit makes the coffee in his stomach churn.
“Don’t answer the goddamn door,” he continues, eyes zigzagging in search of you. “First goddamn shift t’day ‘n where the hell’re you?”
Worry manifests as irritability. Hands paw an anxious tap on the wheel. “C’mmonn… don’t do this t’ me, pretty girl, scarin’ the hell outta me…”
‘Cause your dad’s a fuckin’ head case.
‘Cause he coulda up and moved you in the middle of the night. Coulda left your shit and fled ‘cause of some half-cocked conspiracy.
The blinker ticks ridicule, shoving his nose in every damn second to go by.
Frank turns down Jackson street. Cars pile parallel on the street, parked tight enough to obscure his view of the sidewalk.
Snow lays a fine, untouched sheet over the ground. The truck tires print out Frank’s path to you.
Right as Frank’s knuckles cinch white on the wheel, his teeth baring another hissed curse— movement.
Bobbing along behind the barricade of parked cars a few feet ahead.
Frank perks. Damn near gasps. Looks like a dog being rescued from the pound full of dumb hope and dumber luck.
But it’s you. Christ, it’s you.
Too eager for you, for some goddamn answers, he stomps the gas, jerks the wheel over to cruise along the parked cars.
“Hey! Sweetheart!” Frank calls out from the driver’s side, but passenger window.
You must not hear. Maybe mishear, ‘cause you only stalk faster.
“Pretty girl!” Followed by his sharp, identifying whistle. “S’Frankie, huh? C’mon, you forget ‘bout me already? Get in the truck, sweetheart. Gonna catch a cold.”
“Oh, save it, Frank!” you yell back without ever looking. Hands stuffed in your pockets, you bury your mouth in your jacket and brace the wind. “Get a cold my ass.”
Frank scoffs. The fuck is this? His eyes divide attention between you, the road, and not driving into a line of parked vehicles. “Fingers stop workin last I seen you, huh? Forget how t’ answer a phone? Got me worried sick.”
Dick move, but yeah— it’s a call out to last night. He didn’t think of it as a pump ‘n dump…
“My fingers work perfectly fine,” you spit back. “But you already knew that, didn’t you!?” All venom and ice. “Made sure they worked and you got what you wanted out of it, right!?”
“The fuck’s that s’pposed t’ mean?!” Frank hollers back, a hand thrown up.
Dualing it out loud and proud like New Yorkers at seven-sumthin’ in the mornin’.
“Fuck off, Frank! Take a fucking hint once and awhile.”
Now’s the time to panic. And he does.
Fuck off. You tell him to fuck off like it’s easy. Like it’s fuckin’ nothin’. Stomach gets all… thick and heavy. Like he might throw up, mouth full of saliva.
The fuck did your dad do after you got home? The hell happened? What didn’t Frank protect you from by droppin’ you off at home instead of takin’ you with him?
The speedometer hangs out at 3mph.
Your shoes stamp angry prints into fresh snow. Cheeks’re all red from wind burn, head down and downright defiant as you trudge. Jesus, it pulls his heart down. Seein’ you like this. Cold and alone and cuttin’ him out.
“Please get the truck so we can talk, baby, c’mon—”
“Ugh, don’t baby me!” Throwing the pet-nameoff you, you fling your hands to rid of it. “Knew I should’ve slapped you the second I had the chance in gym.”
“‘Scuse me? What’s that, tough guy?” Frank goads, yelling from the passenger window.
“Yeah!? Come ‘n tell me to m’face then, huh!?”
Whatever’s gonna get you in the damn truck.
A very impassioned middle finger’s your answer.
“Get in the goddamn truck!”
“Fuckin’ freezin’ outside, c’mon.” Impatient and anxious now, a crack in his voice.
“Since when, huh? Since when ain’t you my problem?”
“You said it yourself. Problem.”
“Jesus. Puttin’ words in m’mouth like that. You done? We gonna talk about whatever the hell this is like grownups?”
“Nope.” You wave him off with a hand. “I don’t have anything to say to you right now.”
“Fuckin’ Christ. Fine. You wanna win? You fuckin’ win.”
And in the snow, heart in his throat, nerves triggering his fingers, Frank Castle drives right beside you the entire way to work.
Frank couldn’t get to you before you clocked in and stalked off to find your trainer. First goddamn day at the grocery store and you’re livid. Pissed don’t even come close.
Lucky for Frank—maybe strategic, if we’re considering the fact he recommended to your trainer, Linda (sweet middle aged lady with a bob and intolerance for cuss words), you start with stocking shelves.
The ones right in front of the deli.
Which is conveniently located right in front of the meat counter where Frank traded a shift to stand behind the glass and fill half-assed orders while he watches your every move across the aisle.
Usually he’s in the back, cuttin’ the shit. Hates the stupidity of the general public, rather stay away. Not today, though. Not today.
Frank looks every bit as miserable as he feels. Like a goddamn kicked puppy, eyes cautious of looking too directly at you, but constantly finding their way to the person that’s got his leash with hope that maybe… maybe you’ll look too. Maybe even smile, let him know it’s gonna be okay.
Smells like the fresh caught fish advertised in the case, but it’s a few days old. The chill of produce, mopped floors. Today it all smells different. Smells off. Smells like bullshit.
With your back to Frank, cans clink as you stack them high on the tiered shelves.
There’s no line at the deli, so Frank stares. Stared when there was a line, too. Unapologetically. Bent over, elbow on the counter, chin dropped in his hand. Pathetic and lovesick and not a fuckin’ clue what to do. Wonders if you can smell his worry.
When you reach for the highest shelf, that’s when Frank stands at attention, his black butcher’s apron stretching taut over his broad chest.
On your tiptoes, fingers pushing the can up over the ledge above your goddamn head, he blurts out caution before he can think twice.
“Hey, careful like that,” he calls out, “yeah, shit’s gonna fall on your head if you ain’t careful.”
Wrong choice. Your body locks in place, eerily rigid. Agitation cements you, all but your head. That- that turns. Over your shoulder, you throw the nastiest glare known to man at him. It says everything you don’t.
It says: fuck off, Frank.
“…Yeah, ‘kay,” clearing his throat, “m jus’ gonna go fuck m’self,” he mutters, turning away to wipe a crusty rag over the counter to hide behind the act of doing something.
He watches you from eight to noon.
Lookin’ so cute in that dumbass uniform. Jeans, long sleeve tee, terrible bright blue customer service vest that looks god awful on anyone else. So focused on stackin’ cans. Labels all out, neat rows. Shit work still done with pride. Looks good. You look good.
You smile a lot, ya see. Well— not today, at him. But that’s what Frank notices. Noticed from day one at school. People that don’t even give you a glance when they walk by.
But you look up anyway. Look at all of ‘em. Hum a little acknowledgment while you got a little smile all the same.
Why don’t they look at ‘chu? That’s what Frank can’t figure out. Pisses him off, if he’s honest. Light of his goddamn life, and people don’t even have the decency to nod.
Scratchy stock music drones over the store speakers. Shit usually makes Frank wanna dig his eardrums out, but today it’s alright. He’s got you to focus on.
Around ten a lady with a baby on her hip wanders up to you. Baby’s got sprigs of downy hair pulled into a cute checkered bow. Mama asks you where the formula is.
Frank stops listening, goes into a trance when the baby babbles, reaches for your hair, breaks out in a smile so big it must’a seen the sun.
Just you the little girl’s gigglin’ at.
You laugh, letting her curl her finger around one of yours. Mom apologizes. You say it’s no problem.
And Frank… Jesus, all he thinks about is… that. You won’t even look at him, cussed him out already today, and he’s thinkin’ of a life with you.
You. Him. After graduation. He’s gonna keep you, sweetheart. He is.
A kid? Maybe two? Three? Start a family someday? Mini army of Castles runnin’ around?
If he gave you everything… food, house, love, took care of the income… Would you want that?
Needs to know what you want, so Frank can put it on his to-do list. Make it happen.
Frank’d like that. If you did, yeah, he’d love it. A life. A family. The more he thinks about it… the redder his neck gets. You, him, leavin’ someday. Goin’ somewhere. Safe and together. Get you through school, yeah, if you want… Then…
Frank scratches the flush of his neck.
Then… a ring. Make you his officially.
Ma and baby walk away with a wave.
You glance over at Frank. Catch him already staring.
For the first time all damn day—just for a damn second—it ain’t hatred.
Hope’s a pitiful thing. It’s all Frank has.
Brows lifted a bit, eyes soft, he offers you a confident thumbs up. Doin’ good, sweetheart.
You study him for a split second. You look… sad, Frank thinks. The kinda look people give that’s an apology when they’re the ones wounded, yet they’re still the ones sorry.
Shaking your head, you turn away. Just stop, Frank.
You don’t look at him again.
Not until he tries to make you after twelve o’clock.
Tremors rattle the plastic spoon in your hand with every bite of lukewarm vegetable soup.
For a change… you aren’t hungry. This is necessary nourishment, something ordinary and mechanical you try to fill the pit in your stomach with.
Every bite plummets down. You swear you hear it plink in the empty cavern you’ve become since last night, Friday night. Your birthday. Best night of your life until it wasn’t.
The break room clock ticks your countdown. Every second to pass is another second you avoid Frank, but how much longer can you manage this?
12:24pm. Six minutes left of break. Just survive six minutes.
You despise the phantom touch of his fingers skimming your lower stomach. You despise more how your body so vividly and eagerly remembers just one moment with him. One. Your first, ever. His eyes, so dark yet soft as he looked at you in the light of the truck and said it didn’t have to go this far. The sounds you made. The sounds he made. The ways in which his face pinched and twisted and came blissfully undone. How all of it—him—equated to such perfection you forgot the past and anything bad in the world existed. Until you got home, of course. Found the note, the pictures, and had a rude awakening the past catches us all eventually.
Ugh… There it goes again. Your stomach, clamping in empty knots around and around until the soup starts to come back up.
ID tag cinched in your fist, you use the sharp edges to ground yourself, eat with the other hand. Breathe. Breathe. Remember to breathe. Breathe all you want, but the tension never unravels from your shoulders and your hands haven’t stopped shaking and your heart rate’s making you dizzy.
All you want is Frank. That fucking bastard. You want a hug. And to ram your fists into his chest a couple times and demand why. You wanna be told it’s gonna be okay. You wanna hear him say, with his lips on your head, it’s all a bad dream; a lie.
The person that hurts us is usually the person we want comfort from because they’re the ones closest to us.
You have photographic evidence at home. It’s no dream, and it is a type of lie.
ID tag in hand, you reach down. You find the same place as always—on your side, the plushiest part—and you pinch. Right over the blistering green bruise you started making last night. A whimper catches in your throat. The whimper tickles, turns into a sludgy cough. The cough, into a fit.
“Ugh, god…” you stuff your face into your elbow. “…allergies…” you mutter, unwilling to believe yet again, Frank was right.
Five minutes left of your break and Frank’s gonna make the most of it.
Cornerin’ you in a public place ain’t exactly ideal, but he’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.
Chair legs drag with a slow scrape as Frank slides into the one across from you in the break room. Easing himself into it, his eyes fasten on you.
Sees how you lock up. Freeze with the spoon in front of your mouth, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring each breath.
Prey. That’s what you fuckin’ look like. Rabbit in the wolf’s den.
“Easy,” Frank murmurs, but you look down the bench table for an exit.
“Don’t gotta run,” he says, hands folded in his lap to avoid crowding you.
“You don’t know what I need,” hell frozen over and terse through your teeth. “We hardly know each other, Frank. Save the act.”
“Act?” Frank almost laughs. ‘Til your glare says you’re dead fuckin’ serious. “You think ‘m playin’ here, sweetheart? Think this shit’s a game t’ me?” as he gestures between the two of you.
“I don’t think it’s as serious as either of us thought.”
“…Look me in the goddamn eye ‘n say that.”
“I don’t owe you anything. Certainly not looking you in the eye.”
Jesus, your face’s red. Frank’s waitin’ for steam to blow out your ears. Face steel plated, mouth crimped shut, you seethe as you look into your soup. Frank swears it’s boilin’.
Instinct to reach for you, his hands twitch. They don’t go anywhere. Likely he wouldn’t get ‘em back unbroken.
He clocks the door, the empty room, then leans an inch closer, voice level and low. “You gonna tell me what the hell this’s ‘bout so I can fix it? Look me in the eye ‘n tell me what’s goin’ on with you?”
You don’t. Won’t. The spoon creaks as your fingers vise down. Knuckles clawing white under your skin. Little crackles as the plastic splinters.
“You can’t change what’s already done, Frank,” you grit. “There is no fixing this. But I really, really wish you could.”
A slow slitting of his eyes, jaw tightening. “…Sounds a lot like you’re talkin’ ‘bout us.”
Something strange happens in his chest. Behind his ribcage, left side. The muscle truncates, pinches ‘til he can’t breathe right.
Doesn’t know it, but it’s his heart.
“Sweetheart, hah— c-c’mon. Can’t- can’t be serious right now. You don’t mean that, huh? You don’t. Can’t. Look at me. Look at me.”
You- you won’t. Fuck, you don’t give him the time of the day. Not even an afterthought or consideration. Just nothin’.
You grip the sides of your head and bow it to hide. “Please,” a whimpered beg, “please stop, Frank, stop. Just… leave me alone, okay? I don’t wanna talk about it, and I certainly don’t wanna talk to you.”
It hits. Hard. Frank can tolerate pain. Hockey pucks to the nose, teeth. Punches, kicks, broken bones. No problem. This, though…
Frank jars. It’s a physical blow of shock his body absorbs in slow motion. Mouth left open with nothing to say, eyes dragging to the ground as your words repeat over and over in his head.
I certainly don’t wanna talk to you.
I certainly don’t wanna talk to you.
I certainly don’t wanna talk to you.
“Thought you…” the words die off, trapped in his shrinking throat.
Thought you liked talkin’ t’ me.
Thought I was your best friend.
Broad shoulders curl in. So does his spine, falling under the weight of hurt and the ugly question rolling around in his head: Is this gonna be the end? And why?
“I, uh…” Frank struggles to find the words. Eyes dart every which way, a hot bite in them. Trying to memorize the taste of your chapstick from last night in case it’s the last, he wets his lips. “Do… uh, do whatchu gotta do. I’ll, uh… I’ll be here when you’re ready, huh? You jus’— you lemme know, alright? Always here f’you. Jus’ want you t’ know that. Lemme ask you this…” he pauses, finger trembling in a weak point at you. “…What the hell changed?”
Stone cold, you look him dead on. The I love you’s from Friday night burn up in your eyes.
And the world drones to static.
Sneakers scuff over asphalt. The basketball plinks, Billy grunting as he twists out of Frank’s reach, guarding the ball.
Sweat soaks shirts, hair. The sky fades to an abysmal grey as the day dies down, bringing a hollow chill with it.
“Shame you didn’t take the basketball more seriously,” Billy pants, arm out behind him to keep Frank at bay. “Height’s got you one hell of an advantage, Frank. Damn behemoth.”
“Basketball’s for dudes like you.” Frank fakes him out with a swat at the ball. “Tall with no goddamn weight on ya. Goddamn bean poles, two strides ‘n you’re at the other side. Fuck ass sport.”
“Fuck ass sport coulda had you on top.” Bill bounds to half-court, pivoting to face Frank. “Instead you had to pick the blood sport, the hard way through.” Plink, plink, plink. “When’re you ever gonna learn? Work smarter, not harder. You could have it all. Scholarships, college, drownin’ in pussy. Guy like me’d kill for an opportunity like that, Frankie.”
One man’s dream is another’s nightmare.
Frank straightens some. So does Billy. A mutual agreement the match’s over after this.
“What honor’s basketball got? Huh?” Rhetorical, Frank shaking his head. “Bouncin’ a ball ‘round a goddamn court. What’s that serve? Don’t make shit difference. I already got plans, Bill. Stickin’ to ‘em. S’the only thing that’s made sense in all this.”
“Hm.” Ball wedged between his arm and hip, Russo hums, faint smile turning his mouth up. “We got plans, pal. Gonna be Marines. Overseas, over there in the shit. Fightin’ for it. You and me, brotha. How it’s always been.”
Frank’s mouth twitches. Fond in the promise and memories. Friends since fuckin’ grade school. Swore to the Marines in eighth grade ‘cause nothin’ else made sense for boys like Frank and Bill.
“Damn straight.” Frank jerks his chin. “Make the fuckin’ basket so we can call it, yeah? Fuckin’ hungry.”
With a little bounce of his feet, Bill shoots the ball. It arcs over Frank’s head, his eyes following it.
Nothin’ but net for a guy like Bill.
Smoke oozes from Bill’s mouth like gaseous plague. Skunky weed smogs the air. Drawing back the joint, he inspects it between finger and thumb. “So your mom really never knows when I’m high?”
Frank snorts from where he sits beside Bill, head shaking. “Jus’ thinks they don’t feed your scrawny ass at the group home.”
Chuckling around the joint, Billy sucks more down. The paper flares orange, ashing off.
Asses parked side by side on the sidelines of the paint-stripped court, Frank sits with his knees up, arms draped over. Looks over the unsavory bits of Queens, New York they’ve grown up in.
Clipped chain link fences, half of it fallen down. Sun-paled liquor bottles in tufts of weeds sprouting through cracked concrete. An elderly woman shuffles down the sidewalk across the street, scooting her walker along as fast as feeble legs allow. Little rough. Questionable safety. No one messes with a guy like Frank, though.
“Trouble in paradise, Frank?” Eyes on the dry, ugly clouds, Bill’s lips barely move.
“The hell makes you say that?” For five goddamn minutes, Frank forgot earlier. Forgot how you couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at him. Made him feel unclean. Unworthy. Downright disgusting. Feelings’re all back.
“It’s Saturday night.” Billy offers the joint. “You’re usually suckin’ face and holdin’ hands at the movies like you’re eighty.”
Frank waves it off. “Don’t do that shit no more, Bill, you know that. Brain rottin’ bullshit.”
“Eh, takin’ a page outta your book, Frank. Manners.”
Bill waits. Has a lot of patience. Knows Frank’ll talk eventually.
Frank tuts it off when he can’t find any excuse. “…Dunno,” he says finally, brows furrowed as he looks down at his hands. “Didn’t think so. Must’a thought wrong.”
“Mm, mhm… Girls. You know how they are, Frank. Complicated… emotional… irrational… Every reason why I don’t keep one around.”
Frank knows how most girls are, but you ain’t like anyone else. It’s Saturday night. Supposed to be at the movies with you. Misses your hand in his. Misses the cold of the truck, the garble of the radio. Misses your lips on his. How you taste, smell, sound, feel against him. All of him burns for all of you. Feels like every rib’s been snapped, gut a black hole of misery sucking the life outta him every minute he doesn’t have you.
“What’d you do? Hm?” Billy asks. “Forget her birthday?”
Frank shoots him a look that says that’s stupid.
“Right, right… so sorry, Romeo. How dare I? My wittle wuv-bug could neva,” as he stamps the butt of the joint out. “Tell me about it. Talk me through it and I’ll tell you where it went wrong.”
Frank hesitates, dragging a hand through his wet hair. It rests on the back of his neck, slick skin drying cool. “Started out good. Real good. She asked f’the arcade, we went t’ the arcade.”
“And? Did you win her a prize? You gotta win ‘em the prize or you’re less of a man.”
“Got ‘er the prize. Yeah. ‘Sact one she wanted.”
“Food? You get her food? They get reallll angry when they’re hungry, Frank. Little Gremlins is what they are.”
“‘Course I got ‘er food.”
“Feed her before or after midnight?”
“You’re a real ass, you know that?”
“Just making sure your precious little Mogwai didn’t turn into Stripe.”
“Why I even bother talkin’ t’ you ‘bout shit, huh? Jesus.”
Laughing without a sound, Billy waves a hand along. “Alright, alright, alright. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You happy? I’m done. Alright, let’s hear it. What next?”
Frank breezes over the details. Arcade. Prize. Food. Movies. The fuckin’ cupcake. The card. The movie. The… ah. Yeah. Hands. The hands. Yours on him, his on you in minimal detail. The goodbye. And the no answer. All of it.
“So you got in her pants now she won’t talk to you,” Russo concludes.
“Christ, don’t gotta say it like that,” Frank rolls his eyes. “Wasn’t like that.”
Lounging back on his palms, Billy exhales long and slow. Thinkin’. “If she wants to be left alone… I’d leave her alone, buddy.”
“…Won’t that piss ‘er off more?” Stubble rasps as he drags his face down his face. Feels like he’s got a film on him, sticky and inadequate. “Look like I don’t give a shit?”
“No, you’re giving her space,” Billy emphasizes with a pinched finger and thumb in Frank’s face. “Call it respecting boundaries. Women hate when you don’t listen to that shit, hate when you try to play good guy.”
“So don’t bother ‘er s’what you’re tellin’ me. Leave it be.”
“Exactly. There ya go, princess,” Billy teases, grin lopsided. “It’ll be fine. It’ll blow over. But you’ve gotta let her do this on her own time, okay? That’s the key here. Leave her be. If she can’t get over this, then…” he scoffs. Doesn’t need to say the rest.
“Dunno, Bill,” eyes squinted, Frank looks in the direction of your apartment. “Don’t sound right. Sumthin’ ain’t right.”
“Frank. When’ve I ever led you wrong?”
Eyeing the clouds, Frank thinks about you. How you look in his shirt, your smile. The baby playin’ with your hair earlier, your laugh. The face you make—eyes wide, stunned a second—when he says somethin’ so off the wall you glitch before you belt out laughin’. He misses you. A lot. More than you know. More than he knows what to do with.
A hand in his face breaks the thoughts.
Standing up in front of Frank, Bill waves his fingers. “Come on. I’m gonna have to schmooze your ma up again. We’re late f’dinna’. You know how she gets when we’re late f’dinna’, Frank.”
Frank takes one last look at the sky. Wonders if you’re lookin’ at it too, thinkin’ about him.
He takes Billy’s hand, gets hauled to his feet.
Bill dribbles the ball as they amble for the apartment.
“Hey, uh… thanks, Bill,” Frank says while looking forward. “‘ppreciate it.”
“Anytime.” Bill slings his arm over Frank’s shoulders as they walk. “What else’re brothers for? Maybe it’s for the better, huh? Won’t hurt so bad when they ship us out overseas. We’re gonna be the difference in the world, Frank. We’re gonna come out on top.”
Frank lets Bill talk out his ass. It’s what Bill does.
But Frank can’t think of anything worse than losin’ you.
You stare into the eyes of the only man to ever truly understand you and he’s on your ceiling. He’s quiet… He’s sweet… Smart…
Special Agent Fox Mulder of the X-Files.
Creases go through his eyes where the poster was once folded, paper too stubborn to smooth.
Fox Mulder would never do this to you. He’d leave you for extraterrestrials, but not this.
Stupid perfect hair. Stupid perfect asymmetrical top-to-bottom-lip ratio. Stupid big, blocky, knobby nose reminding you of your stupid, stupid, stupid ex?boyfriend Francis David Castle.
Propped up by half a dozen pillows, glossy red-rimmed eyes study the printed image of the most beautiful man you’ve laid eyes on. He’s perfect because he’s fictional.
Mouth breathing with tissues wadded up your nose, you scrunch the mountain of blankets higher over your chest to fight your fevered chill.
“Stupid allergies,” you huff again, congestion clogging the complaint.
Newsflash: it’s not allergies.
You’re sick. You’re sick from being in the cold when Frank offered you a way out of it. You’re not willing to admit that, though.
Heavily honeyed peppermint tea sits on your nightstand along with blister packs and bottles of cold and flu relief, and tissues crusted with snot and tears.
It must be after eleven because the phone’s stopped ringing, left with the phantom metallic clatter of Frank’s unanswered calls.
Thirteen unanswered calls, to be exact.
You listened to all of them. Body compressed with inflammation and your insides clotted with snot, you laid and listened, staring into the sparkling green eyes of David Duchovny.
The unsavory pictures of Frank have since found home in your vanity, shoved away in a drawer because having them in sight made you physically sick, and your paychecks aren’t big enough for two dinners yet. You’ve elected to eat soup since Friday. Since your birthday two days ago. One, for the cold. Two, it’s easiest to throw up.
The mattress creaks as you wiggle onto your side, collecting Grumpy Bear in your arms to free him from guarding the phone.
Knees to your chest, you smoosh Grumpy against you, bury your face (and tissues) into his head. Tears still dampen the fur.
Days worth of pain won’t evaporate so quickly. You’re fully aware of that.
Maybe it’s the fever melting your brain. Maybe it’s the cold meds giving you clarity. You can come up with excuses, but you know what you do next is an act of desperation.
Feeble fingers reach out (looking just as pale and ashy as ET when he’s dying), and you pick up the phone.
But you don’t phone home.
One frail finger punches the number in.
You dial that green-bean pole tattle-tale who shouted your unfortunate circumstances to the entire biology class. The only person who knows Frank, just as he knows you.
You call David Lieberman.
After just two rings, he answers.
“Mm…yello?” Scratchy, slurred sleep-disorientation. “Sarah…?”
“Y—” a hesitation making way for alarm. “…yeah…? Who’s this?”
Stuffing the phone between your face and pillow, you say your name. Grumpy Bear tucks under your chin.
“Wait- like… Frank’s girlfriend?”
“Pft. I guess,” you scoff, the sound triggering a tickle in your throat you croup up.
“O-oh? And… gross? You sound sick.”
“Listen up, Lieberman,” your demand catching the tail end of the coughing fit. “No pleasantries. I hate small talk. You’ve got information I need. And you’re gonna tell me, okay? Otherwise I have another basketball and it’s got your nut’s name on it.”
“Jesus, you’re even sounding like him. Has anyone ever told you two you spend way too much time together?”
“Stop. talking. Please.” Your eyes screw shut. “For five seconds.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like relent. “Okay, yeah, sure, whatever… What is it?”
Taking the tissue out of your nose, you sniffle, a glug of snot staying in your throat. “Ugh. David, I need you to…” your expression deflates, eyes closing as you brace for loss; for mourning the best thing you’ve ever had. “…tell me about… Frank. The Frank… I don’t see…”
“Uhhhuhhh— IIIIII have no idea what you’re talking about, uhhh—” instant hesitation proves there’s more. “I really don’t think this’s my business, hah, I mean—”
“Please.” Softer, your fire showing its source in pain.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t hear this from him…? I don’t- I really don’t think this is my place—”
“I don’t care if it’s your place or not, David. If I wanted to hear it from Frank, I would’ve called him. But I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.”
“Because I trust you to tell me the truth!”
“Why? I’ve- I’ve done nothing for you but make you the laughing stock of the class. You have no reason to trust me, and I have no reason to trust you.”
The words stall before they can spill out, your mouth left open. Too much to say, not enough time. “Because everything you said about me was true. I thought I buried it all in the past. But you found it. All of it. And you didn’t miss a damn thing.”
Quiet for too long, you blink and pull the phone back. “Hey… You still there?”
“…I need you to swear,” he says, a tremor in the demand. “Swear to god it doesn’t get back to Frank that I told you, alright? If it does, I’m as good as dead an—”
“I swear. I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t need your help. And I’m not a rat, you have my word.”
“No offense, but… your word’s supposed to mean something to me?”
“Yeah,” one tear crosses over your nose. “It’s all I have.”
After a little more convincing, Micro tells you everything. Every detail, down to the date and time. Every aspiration to cross Frank’s mind, internet search history log, outbound phone calls, inbound phone calls… Every painful, gut-wrenching detail of Frankenstein Frank: the man-made party monster resuscitated again and again by booze, blow, and bitches. 
You’ll see if Frank’s story matches.
Frank does a double take as Micro slinks down at the biology table.
Plop of blonde curls snared and greasy, clothes rumpled and thrown on his wiry body.
“…You look like shit,” Frank says, narrowed eyes looking him over not with concern, per se, but suspicion. “Up late geekin’ off t’ those tech mags again?”
Red-rimmed and sleep-deprived glazed, Micro shoots a weak glare at Frank. “Coming from the guy that looks like he’s fresh off another weekend bender.”
The fuckin’ audacity. The pencil creaks in Frank’s hand, wood bending under pressure. Thinks about deckin’ the back of his head. Knows it won’t help. Frank tuts, waves him off. “Know what? Screw you. Fuck you. Dunno why I even say shit.”
Unhumored, Micro snorts. “Sounds like the least of your worries.”
“Say that again?” A fine edge to the challenge. Smelling the fear, the resentment, Frank leans his head in closer. “You got sumthin’ you wanna say t’me, Lieberman?”
“Yeah, actually, I do. A lot of things. But am I? Nooope.”
“Good. Hate hearin’ that horse shit spewin’ outta your trap so goddamn early.” Frank hauls his textbook up from his backpack. Drops it with unnecessary force to make the table—and Micro—rattle.
Classmates chatter around them. Empty beakers sit at the far corners of every table, cold and compliant. Smells like pencil nubs and latex and radiates senioritis.
Bum, bum, bum. Frank drums his fingers over the table. In time with his heart. Quick gallops, impatient ticks. “She ain’t here yet,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
Your seat’s empty. Locker untouched. Hell, he waited at the front doors ‘til the secretary cleared her throat and pointed a militant finger at him to shoo like a stray dog.
“She’s fine,” David asserts without being asked, shaking his head as he opens the textbook. “She’s sick.”
“Sick?” Squinting distrust, Frank’s head swivels to David. “How the hell you know that ‘n I don’t, huh?”
“Talked to her,” he admits, head turned away to look out the window. “Last night.”
“So she won’t talk t’ me, but she’ll talk t’ your scrawny ass.” Body fully angled towards David, using his musculature as an intimidation tactic. “Why.”
David waves a hand in Frank’s face. “I’m not at liberty to say. She sounded like shit, though. Stress can do that, you know. Trigger illness.”
“Stress? Fuck off, Lieberman. The fuck she’d be stressed ‘bout, huh?” The chair screeches and David almost topples off when Frank drags Micro around to face him. “You hidin’ shit from me, techie? ‘F you got shit t’say— say it. Be a fuckin’ man ‘n stop pussyfootin’ ‘round it, asshole.”
Throat working a tight swallow, David stares at the animalistic flare of Frank’s nose, just inches from his.
Frank has subtle—and not so subtle—signs of aggression. This is one of them.
Hand on Micro’s chair, the other caging him in by holding the table, Frank looms in closer. It’s not a show anymore. It’s a primal display of threat; how a cobra flares its hood, or how a wolf raises its hackles.
Little trembling breaths stutter from David’s mouth, both of his hands raising in surrender. “She knows, Frank.”
Shock straightens Franks in one lash before a slow, seeping rage cements him.
Micro reiterates in a fearful whisper, as if mentioning Frankenstein Frank might conjure him or a brutal beating:
The artificial grape-flavored sludge makes it down your windpipe before you gag.
That’s good! That’s progress.
Clapping a hand over your mouth is still necessary assurance to make sure the nighttime medicine stays down as you blindly fumble the medicine cup back on your vanity.
Hair slick and wet from a shower, Grumpy Bear in tow, you shiver and shuffle around your room to shut it down for the night. Flicking the light switch by the door, the room snaps to black.
Goodnight, David Duchovny poster on the ceiling.
Goodnight, Matrix Keanu Reeves by the vanity.
Goodnight, tank-top and frosted-tips Justin Timberlake by the closet.
Feet dragging pilled beige carpet (and your few nail polish stains), you haul yourself back into bed. Wet hair and clean pajamas—oversized flannel pants and an acid-washed Nirvana tee you swim in—feels therapeutic as you crawl into fresh, crisp sheets. Lavender seeps into your nose as you roll your face into the pillow, inhaling the same laundry softener your mom used since you were a girl. All these different towns and different homes… you’ve always made sure you have that laundry softener.
On either side of the head of your bed, moonlight glimmers in through your transparent curtains, almost like reassurance from Mother Nature that things will be okay. It feels… soothing. A hug without arms; a wordless placation the pain will soften one night at a time.
No calls today. That’s… good too, right? It means Frank’s accepted what you said, and things can just… die off accordingly.
The desk clock on your nightstand tick, tick, ticks, guiding you one second deeper into a peaceful night though it’s only eight-thirty now.
Even the riffraff outside’s taken a break. Dad’s asleep, too. No busting bottles, no inebriated cackling inside or out… Just a cool breeze ghosting in and over you from the inch-wide crack you left. It calms the fevered heat of your cheeks, forehead.
The cold meds will keep you in a comfortable haze as you numb yourself from Frank…
You’ll skip school tomorrow too, not that your dad will notice. Or care. He doesn’t even know you should’ve graduated a year earlier.
Memories of Friday—your birthday, the arcade, the movie, the cupcake, his hands—clamp your thighs shut. Any pleasure from that night, from him, curdles now, infested with the maggots of betrayal. Your best friend… shit. This is exactly why you don’t try to make friends, let alone date. You’re never around long enough, and hurt’s inevitable one way or another.
You lost your best friend, your Frankie. The second you saw him—that abhorrent, half-dead looking version of him—in those pictures… everything in you drowned in grief.
How could you be so stupid? So naive? You knew Frank Castle was trouble for the moment you saw him… you just thought it was the good kind, if there is such a thing.
Curled on your side, eyes drifting to the vanity across the room, you nuzzle into Grumpy.
“I wish you were here,” you croak out, congestion bobbing thick in your throat.
You say it to the heart-shaped picture frame face-down on the vanity, beside your perfume rollers and Seventeen magazine.
“I get so angry you left.”
Whispering to yourself in the dark doesn’t even feel silly as your heartbeat slows, your limbs liquifying as the meds kick in.
“I get so angry God picked you.”
You have no more tears to make. The well’s gone dry. There’s only the gravity-sucking vacuum of grief, a numbness so vast and empty it’s a sort of self-cauterizing wound. It must bleed and weep and burn to heal.
“I get so angry that I don’t understand why people do what they do. And angrier when I don’t have you to talk to about it. You… hah. You left—no, you got taken—before I needed you most…”
No complaint or quarrel (okay maybe some quarrel with the big man upstairs), but you state it as it is: as fact.
You beg the moon, the breeze, the overturned picture, the rare tranquility of tonight.
“…Please give me a sign—anything—about what I should do next. Please.”
Prayer or begging, you’ve forgotten the difference, but you hold your breath for it all the same.
The rhythm of time is much like a heartbeat, always counting down.
Fifteen… sixteen… seventeen…
Lungs burning frustration, you gasp in the first breath after twenty seconds.
No miracle. No sound. Nothing’s changed. Not that you hear or see, anyway.
As your eyes grow heavy from the nighttime cold medicine and you accept there are no miracles just more disappointment, you’re unaware the boy you love is balancing a lunchbox and flowers as he climbs up your fire escape.
Wood creaks and splinters as Frank grunts, knocking his shoulders through your bedroom window frame.
Darkness and smell hit him first. Unnaturally still shadows ooze from the corners, casting black over your things. Smells like your perfume, medicinal syrups. Stuffy too, like the HVAC only recycles hot, stale air. No wonder you’re sick.
Boots crossing through the window one at time. The lunchbox zipper jingles, the cellophane bouquet paper crinkles.
Finding his footing, Frank stands, assesses in a darkness that heightens his curiosity.
A bunch of white tulips in one hand.
A plea for forgiveness accompanying nourishment.
Tubes of lipgloss and nail polish on the vanity… little barrettes you pin your hair up just the way Frank likes with. The magazine— he snorts to himself at that. And the picture frame, face down. Wonders if it’s you and him, something you can’t bear the thought of now.
And he feels… too goddamn big in here. Feels like fuckin’ Godzilla. Somethin’ monstrous invadin’ your space, comin’ into to trash it. Too jaded and brute and dirty to be standin’ in somethin’ so clean ‘n cute. Actually makes his boots inch in closer, his shoulders bow a bit so he’s smaller.
In his head, his mom’s voice overlaps with yours.
Be a man, be a man, be a man.
So he straightens what the weight of his guilt will allow. Squares his shoulders enough to allow for honesty despite the grip of dread anchoring him in a faint slouch.
Only nine thirty… where are yo—?
In a flash, light floods the room. Zeros his pupils to needles, eyes squinting as they dart to locate—
Kneeling and wobbly on the bed, one hand wielding a knife, the other holding the base of the lamp you just turned on in case you need to throw it or need it for balance.
Despite seeing him, his hands going up with the apologies in tow, you grip the lamp harder and your face wrinkles in disgust. “You know if I don’t answer your calls, I don’t want you in my room, right?” Words all mucusy in your throat from the cold.
He doesn’t know which is most dangerous: the lamp, the knife, or the pain in your eyes. Eyes swollen from ugly tears and uglier pain, bruises underneath. Hates himself for it, seein’ what he did to you.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Mother Mary, he is. “Jus’ uh… really need’a talk t’you.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Frank. Not listening or hearing you out. And honestly? Right now? I don’t care what you need.”
The second you say it—I don’t care what you need—your shoulders flicker a wince. Frank knows its ’cause you’re too good of a person to fully mean it, even when he deserves it. He nods along, agrees, eyes condemned to the floor.
“You eat at all?” Frank sets the food on the vanity chair and the flowers on top of the picture frame that demands a second glance at it.
The rise of adrenaline settles in you, shaky, sleep-disoriented arms lowering as you seat yourself on the bed. “…I’m fine. I’m not hungry. I was actually sleeping for the first time this weekend until you decided to play Good Samaritan intruder.”
“Made you soup,” he says, angled to give you his sad-sack profile. Chooses to ignore the rest, not give your fire extra fuel. “Ma made fresh bread. Got summa that too.” A sidelong glance your way, eyeing you. “Gonna put that knife down ‘r use it?”
Medicinally discombobulated, you blink at the knife in your iron-wrought grip. So damn tired you forgot. Releasing the knife, the lamp, your fingers retract one joint at time. The blade clatters to the nightstand. Shrinking in on yourself, your hands slink into your lap, but your face fixes on something passionate: resentment. Thinking you’re sneaky, you glance at the flowers every two seconds.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, but Frank’s got more important things to worry about.
Zipper teeth unlatch in a slow drag as he opens the lunchbox, flips the lid back. Dwarfed in one hand, Frank pulls out the glass Tupperware and a spoon. Turning to give it to you, he falters with the bowl in both hands.
Jesus. You’re pale, seething. If looks could kill… Mouth trembling as your nose wrinkles a snarl. Medusa turns men to stone with one look. One look from you and his heart stops.
Can you see it on him? Smell it on him? The fear. The shame. Every nasty detail of his past coming to the only judge and jury to ever matter: you.
One look at you and it hits him again, same as it did in the grocery store two days ago.
For you? Nothin’ he wouldn’t do.
He’d pick up a hammer. Use it to build you a house or break in a skull, your choice. You say jump, he asks how high so it’s done right.
Remember this? Point. Follow. Point. Follow. All you gotta remember.
Frank’s a young man, sure. But he knows the importance of time. How valuable it is. Precious. Limited. Frank’s a young man who wants every goddamn valuable, precious, limited second of his life spent with you.
His appearance comes under your heavy scrutiny, looking him up and down. Checking for more lies, evidence of Frankenstein Frank instead of the boy who tricks you into smelling your ice cream so he can boop it into your nose just to hear your laugh, feel your hands swat his chest while he wears the biggest, stupidest, done for grin.
None of that now. Just old memories burning away at the edges.
Your brows raise with contemptuous stupidity, wordlessly asking: are you gonna put the fucking bowl down?
“Ah. Right,” he mutters, awkwardly depositing the food on the nightstand by the knife, the lamp. Leaves you food by the two objects you wanted to use on him. “There. C’mon, sweetheart. Eat… Please.”
Giving you privacy, freedom from his presence, he turns and gathers the bread. Wide end cut of fresh Focaccia flatbread, soaked in olive oil, sea salt, rosemary. Hands it over to you without looking, preparing you to rightfully bite the hand that feeds.
Glaring at him, you reach out. Slow at first, just to snag the bread so fast it’s there one second, gone in the next.
Bent at the waist where you sit, you peek under the soup lid. “…Did you make this?” you mutter, posing indifference. “…By yourself?”
The vanity chair groans as Frank sits in it, big ass frame making it look miniature. Knees spread wide and facing you, lunchbox between his boots, Frank nods once. “Yeah. Yeah, s’uh Minestrone. Ma’s recipe. Good f’you. Good f’colds. Lotta veggies, beans… Good… stuff…”
“…It’s still warm…” you mumble, the passion of your hatred subsiding as you spoon through it, scooting closer to the edge of the bed.
“Didn’t want ya t’have’t go down ‘n…” Go down. Tiptoe around your dad to heat it up. Use the microwave and risk waking him.
You nod a weak motion, but take a bite. Unabashed and necessary redemption, Frank watches as your brows melt, your eyelids lowering as you chew. Must be decent ‘cause it’s got your shoulders unknotting.
“…Taste alright?” he asks, eyes tracking your room.
“Mhm,” exhausted agreement.
Lets you eat in quiet for a bit. Spoon clinking. Bread dunking.
Lamplight warms everything. Frank huffs a sound of inaudible amusement when he clocks the posters. Goddamn David Duchovny, got every woman around his finger. Polaroids taped on your wall. Pictures of you, your mom. Even your dad years ago, on what must’ve been good days. A dog and you, a few years ago he guesses, your arms thrown around it. Wonders what happened to that girl and her dog. What you had to go through to get here, where the dog ended up. And even… on the other side of your bed… pictures of you and him.
Thank Christ. Thank Christ. That’s gotta be a good sign, right? It’s enough to put rekindle the spark of hope in his belly and open his stupid mouth.
“…‘Kay.” Straightens his ass right up.
“Why’re you here, Frank?” you ask without ever looking away from the soup.
It takes everything in him to say it. But Frank’s not hiding. Not when honesty’s costing him you. “‘Cause I got ugly shit we need’a talk ‘bout, don’t I?”
You lock up. Go rigid. Fingers bent around the spoon ‘til it shakes, broth plattering back down to the bowl. Jaw wired shut. Got that prey look again, but this time’s worse ‘cause Frank knows there’s a tipping point and this’s it.
“I know you know,” he murmurs. “Know you heard.”
“Heard about how you get so fucked up you were basically back from the dead?” a whispered hiss, a glanced dagger glare at him. “Frankenstein Frank. Life of the party. Go until you drop, just for someone to give you another hit and bam! Back up again. Impressive, Frank. I’m so glad that went over well with other girls.”
Unclench your jaw, unclean your jaw, he tells himself. Don’t make a fist, don’t make a fist.
“How’d you find all’a out, huh?” Elbows on his knees, Frank leans forward, head tilting, voice straining. “Was it David? Micro tell you all that shit?”
You puff an incredulous laugh. “It wasn’t David. If anything, he’s been a voice of reason for you. You’re lucky, you know, to have a friend like him. He’s got your back.”
“Then what? Huh? Where’d you hear it from?”
“I didn’t hear it from anyone, asshole. I saw it. After I got home Friday night.”
“Open the drawer,” you whip a hand in the direction of your vanity, throw the spoon in the bowl with the other. Soup splatters the knife. Half the bread sits by it. “Go ahead. See for yourself, Frank. See what I had to see, the little goodies someone left under my door.”
Worse than hearing it… you saw? How? David’d helped Frank collect the pictures last year. Fuckin’ destroyed them. Shredded then burned, gone.
Mouth pressed in, Frank opens the drawer. A faint, slow scrape of wood. Face down on top, there they are. Thick stack of Polaroids on top of your scrunchies, chapsticks, gum. Big fingers squeeze into the compartment, pulling the photos out. Shoulders tensing as his lungs capsize.
Fingers shuffle through them. Blurry images. Undeniably him. Other girls hanging on him, off him. Bottles of beer, whiskey. Piles of coke. Bein’ a goddamn douchebag with his shirt off, letting whatever hands touch that wanted to ‘cause it was free game.
“I- I can’t, Frank,” you stumble out, your hands at your throat as if you’re choking. “I can’t do this, Frank.” It explodes outta you like you’ve been sitting on it all weekend and now’s the detonation.
It rigs his spine rod-straight, brows bowing panic over dark eyes. “Can’t do what, pretty girl, huh?” Struggling to keep his voice level because he knows. “What can’t ‘chu do?”
“This,” you spit out, hands waving through the ample space separating you two. “This, Frank. I- I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. I can’t do us.”
“No.” Immediate and laden with dread. “No,” his hands stuffing the pictures out of sight on the dresser. “Don’t say that. C-c’mon. Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”
Tears and apology in your eyes, you manage to look up at him through wet lashes and a ducked head. The best you offer’s a fragile shrug. “I’m saying it because I mean it, Frank…”
“Rip m’ fuckin’ heart out,” Frank offers, scrambling to the edge of the chair. “Throw it on the ground. Stomp all over the damn thing! Jus’ don’t— don’t. Don’t leave. Not like this. Not over this stupid shit, shit that don’t matter now. Jesus, I—”
“Don’t you realize how stupid that makes me look, Frank? Like, Jesus! Everyone else knows what you’ve done, where you been. Everyone except me, and here I am thinking you’re perfect, absolutely perfect, only to—” a gag beats your throat and it’s not the medicine this time. Mouth smashed in the crook of your arm, you wait a second until the fizzle of bile crawls back down. “……No one’s ever perfect. And I was so stupid for not even asking. But why should I have to? I trusted you, Frank, so I trusted if there was anything I needed to know, I’d hear it from you.”
Shame is a rusty, jagged razor cleaving into his chest, puréeing his guts into dense waste. Frank hasn’t cried since…
Christ, can’t even remember.
But right now? Right goddamn now, he remembers how exactly how it feels. Quivering clenched jaw chattering his teeth. Eyes straining and hot and burning with the skin around mottling red. Throat constricting with an invisible noose of his own making. Bitter saliva flooding his mouth. He tries to open his mouth, tries to say it’s him that looks stupid, but he can’t. He knows you’re right. You both look stupid and it’s his fault.
Frank jolts when something hits his chest. Rips his eyes from a trance, looking down to find the bread you threw in his lap.
“Say something,” you demand.
And when Frank lifts his eyes—when one goddamn tear runs hot down his cheek—his chest collapses.
Anger and despair are two things no god should allow to coexist. God doesn’t care. Doesn’t listen. ‘Cause you tremble from both. Shallow, ragged breath saws your chest as your wild eyes pin him for answers. Face splotched red, you cry without a goddamn sound. Cry without blinking.
Anger and despair are two things that shouldn’t exist together. But they do. And it triggers something primally possessive in a young man like Frank. Tendons in his neck rope out, teeth mashed together.
“I done shit I ain’t proud of!” he hisses. “Alright? Jesus. Fuck. Can’t- can’t take it back. Yeah, I admit it. I was a lil’ punk ass sonnuva bitch. But that ain’t me. Not now. You look at that then you look ‘t me ‘n you tell me if you see the same person.” He snatches one picture from the vanity, the one of him sucking down a joint with Vanessa laid against him in her cheerleading uniform. Holds it up beside his face. “‘Cause I don’t know this fuckin’ prick. I buried that asshole months ago, well ‘fore I met you!”
“Wait, Frank, all of it before we m—?”
Blood rushing in his ears, your voice doesn’t register. “Turnin’ in t’ a goddamn delinquent loser doin’ that stupid shit. Only time I felt halfway normal, huh, y’know? Cut the fuckin’ noise. Sad. How fuckin’ sad’s that? Pathetic’s a better word f’it.”
“Nah, nah, nah. You don’t owe me shit, but I owe you everythin’. Here it is,” Frank chuckles and it’s a bitter, self-resenting thing, his hands open to offer you whatever nothings and everythings he has. ”Ask me. Ask me anythin’ you want, alright?”
Overloaded with information, emotion, your hands rake through your hair and tug the sides. “Why the hell would I wanna know what happened, Frank? Why would I want those details?” Your voice drying hoarse, going higher. “I’ve seen enough.”
“So there’s nothin’ left you dunno.” Needing to expend anxious energy, he bolts up from the chair. The bread tumbles to the ground, in the discolored patch where you puked Friday. Paces, paces, paces. “Every bad thing I done, every damn thing I wanna take back ‘n can’t.”
A steady voice from somewhere rational in the sympathetic fight or flight response.
Stops him in his tracks, mid-stride. Forces him to look over his shoulder at you. Christ, he— Christ, he just wants to hold you. Reach in and scoop out the anguish rotting your shine, erase the pain of discovery, mend the broken fragments of your heart and pull out the shards stuck in your ribs.
You sit on your bed, knees curled under you. Look so goddamn small. Not incapable, or weak, just… not invincible. Toughest damn girl he knows—his goddamn girl—and she’s got tears dripping down every blink, face washed from sickness and him.
Reining in the pump of adrenaline and his own distress, Frank fixes himself first.
He swallows the bitter, thoughtless barks.
Adjusts his breathing. Slow, narrow inhales through his nose. Slower, thinner streams out his mouth.
Tame the thunder of his heart.
Make you his top priority.
“‘Kay. Alright,” he mutters to himself, turning to face you. Rugged face frighteningly cool, he nods at the end corner of your bed. “Lemme sit? Please?”
Deer in headlights, you hesitate. Then… kinda nod. Then… nod again, more certainty.
Sweaty curls over his forehead, shoulders striving for strength, Frank eases himself down. The mattress squeaks protest, dipping low under almost two-hundred pounds.
Back against the headboard, legs drawn close and crossed, you stare across the bed at Frank.
Grumpy Bear watches from a tangled sheet with an unmoving frown.
As Frank calms, so do you.
Tension strangles the air between you instead of your bodies, voices.
Fidgety, wet eyes shift aimlessly, Frank stripped down to desperation and raw necessity, his hands push over his thighs. “Three days,” Frank says with a fleeting glance at you. “Three days ‘n I found sumthin’ out.”
“…What’d you find out?” A wariness breaking through the watery rise in your eyes.
“Days look real fuckin’ bleak without you. Don’t like it one bit. Nah. Can’t do it. Can’t do it without you. You do sumthin’ f’me?”
“Nah, ain’t askin’ f’much, alright? I jus’— need you t’ hear it fr’m me, alright? Ask. Ask me. Not Micro. Not some random ass pictures. Not the asshole fr’m the pictures. Me.”
Something on the vanity holds your gaze, but Frank isn’t sure what. Looks like the pictures, but maybe it’s the frame you put face-down or the flowers. Lips swollen from sickness and crying, you lick over them. “…When was the last time?”
“That shit?” Frank points as the discarded images. “Last year. Last summer. Almost a full year ago.”
“…What drugs have you done?”
“What you saw. Smoked a couple times. Coke a few more th’n that.”
“And…” On instinct, you lean towards the opposite side of the bed
Frank’s eyes follow to the small wastebasket you got on the ground.
“…You need that?” he whispers, body tensing as he readies to get up.
Point, follow. Point, follow.
“I dunno,” you flick a sharp glare at him. “Am I gonna?”
“I dunno, sweet girl. Christ, I hope not. Hope it ain’t that bad.”
“But it might be,” you reiterate.
“But it might be,” he agrees. No inkling of pride, just stark transparency. “Ask.”
A cruel sheepishness softens your words. Quiet ‘cause you’re scared, and Frank hates himself for it.
“…How many of those girls did you date?” you ask, hand squirming closer to your mouth in case you gotta cover barf from his answer.
“…None,” Frank says, forehead creased as he hones his attention on a feather on your blanket.
“You didn’t…? You didn’t date any of them?”
“Sweetheart…” Frank breathes a weak laugh, mouth flitting before it falls. “You’re m’first girlfriend.”
“…Yeah,” Frank grimaces. “Still… did stuff.”
New sweat breaks out over your forehead, clamming your skin as you prep the next question. You sour. Frank sees your skin go green.
Honesty might ruin this, but he can’t give anything less.
“How many did you sleep with?”
“…I… didn’t?” Genuine confusion shapes his face. Knitted brows, a slight pinch up to them. “Didn’t sleep with any’a ‘em.”
Something about the answer physically strikes you. You startle, mouth left open as you dissect his face for sincerity or deception. “…You…? Have… have you ever… had sex?”
“Nah,” barely a sound as he drags his hand over his mouth, looking off at the corner. “Ain’t ever had sex.”
“Look me in the eye and say that.”
Frank looks you in the eye.
Got the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen, his sweet girl. Strong girl, still lookin’ at him now prepared to clock him or kiss him or both at the same time.
Arms folded over your chest, your chin down, you wait, patience going dry. “Frank?”
The words come out slow, ears scorching red as he admits. “…I ain’t ever…” his voice cracks in a way it hasn’t since fuckin’ puberty. “…I ain’t ever had sex…”
Roaring silence in his ears.
Your dropped-jaw, over-it stare as you give him a few seconds to backtrack or scramble for another lie.
Guilt gnaws his bones until his fingers tremor, twitching relentlessly in his lap.
“…Ma took my ass t’ church ‘fore I fucked up bad ‘nough,” he adds. “Dragged me in by the ear, yeah. Really did. Shoved me in that confessional cussin’ me up and down in Italian while she prayed f’me t’ get m’head outta m’ass.”
“…I’ve never…” you say like you didn’t even hear, trailing off.
“…I’ve never… been with… anyone, in any way… until you.”
A wince goes through his shoulders. “…Then you came home ‘n found that. Christ.”
You press the heel of your hand into your eye.
“…Wasn’t like that. Me ‘n you. You know that? Wasn’t- didn’t do that f’me or- or ‘cause I think’a you like that. I mean— yeah, I want’ chu like that, but it ain’t… that. You feel me? You ain’t disposable. Them? They are. All of ‘em. Fuck ‘em. I ain’t ever care ‘bout someone like I do you.”
Your questions come easier after that.
His answers come faster, direct.
The air clears. Tension lifts, but doesn’t leave.
No, he’s never taken ‘em to a movie. Never spent a goddamn dime on ‘em.
No, nothin’s ever happened in the truck.
No, he hasn’t drank a drop in a year.
No, no pot, no blow, either.
No, he’s never made soup for anyone ‘til you. Never even flowers.
Yeah, he got sucked off multiple times in a fuckin’ bathroom at someone’s house parties.
Yeah, he did it sober a few times, too.
Yeah, it was mutual, definitely consensual.
No, there were no strings.
No, he never wanted to be more with them.
No, he doesn’t have feelings for them.
Yeah, they’re dead to him. They were never worth keeping.
The clock ticks to quarter ‘til midnight.
He’s spent. You’re spent.
“Now y’know,” Frank says, dabbing his tongue over his bottom lip. “…Hate me?”
“You know,” you begin, moving around the question. Skimming your thumb over a seam on the blanket in your lap, you focus on that instead of Frank. “I wanted to answer when you called. I wanted to answer so you could hear me tell you I hate you.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Don’t blame ya.”
“…And I hate that I don’t wanna say it now. I didn’t even really wanna say it then. I just… wanted you to know how bad it hurts me. Even if it happened before we met, I feel so… betrayed. Like you lied to me, even if you didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” his eyes crimp shut. “I know. Do it different ‘f I could, swear t’ god. Wasn’t tryna keep nothin’ fr’m you. Wasn’t tryna hide it. Jus’… didn’t know how t’ bring that up, hm?”
“Yeah… Learn for the next girl, I guess. Wish I didn’t have to be the learning curve.”
His head snaps up. Panic thrums through his veins. “You- you still wanna be done with us? …Me?”
“I… I’m not sure how I’ll bounce back from this one, Frankie. What if there’s always a degree of mistrust? What if I can’t look at you the same? I mean, right now… I’m still having a hard time digesting this. Don’t you think it’ll be easier to just go our separate ways before we get more involved? Graduation’s in two months, we can be civil, get through the next few weeks and we don’t have to make this weird.”
That’s what he clings onto.
Deep down, he’s still your Frankie to you.
“Nah,” Frank sniffs once, hard. Dark eyes directionless. “Nah,” again, molding it to certainty. “We ain’t done,” voice cracking. “You hear me? Hm? We ain’t done. Don’t care ‘f I gotta spend m’whole goddamn life makin’ it right, makin’ sure you know I ain’t that shitbag no more. ‘M gonna. Know why? ‘Cause you’re worth it. Best—” choked, taking a second to compose himself, raspy. “Best goddamn person I ever met. You think ‘m gonna let that go? Shit. Love you with m’whole heart, yeah, I do. So no, sweetheart. No. I ain’t lettin’ that happen. You’re it f’me.”
New tears flank your cheeks, bottom lip wobbling.
Smitten, hellbent, and tenacious, Frank glances at you. Adoration warm in the subtle, sorrowful crinkle of his eyes, he reaches forward. Grabs your CareBear with the same gentleness he’d touch you with. Presses Grumpy into your lap without brushing you; won’t ever touch you if you ain’t ready.
“There’s one thing—” his voice shakes, sound scraped raw, lips trembling where they make a full, honest, devastated smile, showing all those small teeth. “One thing no one can ever take fr’m me. Not even you, sweet girl.”
A pause. His smile holds strong. One final tear rounds out on his jaw. It’s not a smile of goodbye. Just… bye for now.
“‘N that’s my love f’you. Even ‘f you don’t want it. You got it. All’a it. All’a me.”
This chapter is dedicated to: @finco99 | Finco, thank you so much for being here with me for so long… I always so look forward to your feedback, your thoughts, and support on my writing. I adore you and your seemingly endless support for your fandoms and writers and fandom community! You are such a joy. Thank you so much for everything you do for me, and all other writers :) luv u
Special thanks to the anon req that helped me build the last part of the chapter! See it here.
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